A Study in Leather
by astudyinotters
Summary: Sherlock and John are called to take a case in which the corpses are all tied to a local club. The two go undercover for their investigation, and learn a lot about each other in the process. Follow as Sherlock and John study the case, study the club, and study each other. Johnlock BDSM fic.
1. The First Taste

**Gosh, it's been such a long time since I've been on fanfiction as a writer, but, alas, I'm back. And I've been bitten by the writing bug. I can't promise or even tell you when the next update will come, life is too busy for constant updates. I hope you enjoy this, and drop me a comment or review.**

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It all started with a case. Lestrade had called them like he had hundreds of times before. At first glance, Sherlock had scowled, dubbed it a four, and dismissed it with a dramatic turn, his blue dressing gown flaring around his knees. It was a poor substitute for his thick Belstaff coat.

Lestrade had returned a few days later, claiming it was imperative that Sherlock take on this case, that it was really closer to an eight than a four. Sherlock once again scoffed and turned the Detective Inspector away, turning his focus back to the colony of god-knows-what currently growing in the bottom of their coffee cups. John shrugged apologetically and walked Lestrade down to the door. It was there that Lestrade rubbed a hand over his weary face, handed a manila envelope - presumably the case - to John, and stepped outside.

John closed the door and flipped through the file, taking in the names of the victims as he walked up the stairs to 221 B. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob when he saw the pictures taken of the two bodies. "Sherlock," he called out, stepping over the threshold. "We're taking this case."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and frowned at John. "But John, it's a _four_. I don't take cases under a six, and don't leave for anything below a seven. You know that," he said, turning back to focus the lens.

John set the file down on the coffee table and set about making tea. "There's a brand involved, Sherlock. I know how much you like cases with those," he said, filling the kettle with water. John grew annoyed when the kettle whistled before his flatmate acknowledged his words. He became frustrated when Sherlock was still silent after he dug out his box of tea from its weekly hiding spot behind the sleeves of biscuits he favored. When John found out that all of their mugs were currently incubating bacteria, he was furious, stalking out of the flat with his doctor's coat slung over his arms. He would be safe at the clinic, and Sarah always seemed to have some shift he could fill. After all, he'd need the extra money to buy a new set of tea mugs.

It was with the arrival of the third dead body that Sherlock upped the rating of the case to a seven. He pulled John out of their apartment at an indecent time in the morning, barely allowing him the time to pull on proper clothing. They were silent in the car, Sherlock shifting his weight every thirty seconds or so. John fixed his flatmate with a stern stare. "Sherlock, be still, please," he said, rubbing the space between his brows.

Sherlock sat still for a few minutes before he was practically vibrating in his seat again. Just as John was about to speak up again, the taxi came to a stop, and Sherlock bounded from the black car, his strides long and surprisingly springy. "Hurry up, John!" he called, making a beeline for the yellow police tape. "It's like Christmas!"

For John, it was nothing like Christmas. He grimaced as he took in the body, this killer was particularly brutal. Cuts and bruises littered the corpse's cold flesh, the blood nearly brown in the scarce, artificial light provided by the lone lamp in the corner. The bruises were every shade of blue, purple, and brown that John could imagine, and a few shades he'd never seen before.

"The victim was male, mid-thirties," John said, leaning forward to inspect the smattering of bruises. "Died from asphyxiation," he added, pressing a finger to tilt the corpse's head, revealing a set of bruises around the neck.

"Good, John," Sherlock said, bending down beside John. "What caused the asphyxiation?"

John looked back at the body again, and frowned. "I'm not sure. Something about as thick as a belt."

Sherlock frowned. "Keep going, John. Tell me more about what it isn't," he urged, looking around the room.

"Wasn't rope," John said, pushing on the corpse's shoulder, exposing more of the neck. "Wasn't anything string like, really. There's nothing resembling rope burn. So, belt?"

Sherlock shook his head. "What's not consistent with a belt strangling?" he asked.

Running his hands over the corpse's neck again, John was surprised there wasn't an indent where the buckle must have been… "There's no buckle indent," he said. "So something leather, but not a belt."

"She used her purse. We're looking for a female killer, likely in her mid to late twenties. Petite. With a shoulder bag," Sherlock said, stalking out of the room. "Come along, John. We're finished here."

Sparing one last look at the corpse, John followed after his flatmate, hustling to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock immediately picked up his violin, raised his bow, and tortured the strings. John sat through it for all of twenty minutes before he was running out of the flat and off to the clinic. He could always catch up on his paperwork, as much as he hated it.

Three days passed before Sherlock stopped cycling between playing his violin, and lying on the couch with three different classical songs playing in the background all at the same time. John had come home from the clinic to a strangely silent flat. It was even clean. He was even more surprised when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, two plates of take-away between them. John sat down and raised an eyebrow when Sherlock picked up a fork and ate the contents of his plate without complaining. Sherlock was up to something, and John could feel it.

"Out with it, Sherlock," John said, setting his fork against the side of his plate.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, swallowing thickly. "Lestrade found a connection between the victims," he said. They sat in silence, John waiting for Sherlock to finish filling him in.

"Stop stalling and tell me the connection, please," he said, fixing his flatmate with a tired look.

"They were all last seen at a club called _Leather_," Sherlock said, his eyes avoiding John's, choosing instead to focus on his mostly empty plate. "It's a BDSM club, and we need to go there to gather information. You'll be acting as my submissive, so we'll have to go over-"

"No," John interrupted, narrowing his eyes.

"But John, the case depends upon it," Sherlock protested.

John held his flatmate's gaze and crossed his arms. "I will not act as your submissive, Sherlock. I can't pull it off," he said.

"How would you know, John? I think you'd fit the role just fine. After all, you follow me around London all the time."

John stood up from his chair and took a deep breath. "Because I am not a submissive, Sherlock," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "And more over, the owner of _Leather_ has never seen me as a submissive, only _with _one."

Sherlock froze and watched as John cleared their plates.

"If we are going to _Leather_, we'll have to prepare for it," John said, turning on the kettle.

"How do we do that?" Sherlock asked.

It was silent in 221B for a few minutes, the quite thick and nearly tangible. The kettle whistled and John prepared two cups of tea, adding a splash of milk to his and a spoonful of sugar to Sherlock's. Carefully, John carried both teacups to the small side table that sat between their chairs. Stiffly, he sat down, his posture rigid despite the comfortable cushions.

"Comer here, Sherlock," John said, his voice calm and even.

"John, I don't see how this will help-"

"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" John interrupted.

"Of course I trust you, John. You've saved my life-"

"Then come _here_. I will not ask again," John said.

Sherlock huffed and stared at his flatmate for a few moments, attempting to deduce the doctor. He tried not to panic when he couldn't get much of a read on John; he couldn't tell if he was mad from their dinner conversation, or if he was frustrated from his day at the clinic. Whatever it was, it was making John act odd. To Sherlock's memory, he'd never seen his friend act like this, and he didn't need to worry about John's mystery when he already had a case.

John sighed and sipped his tea, the sound pulling Sherlock from his frantic mindset. _Oh_. John wasn't telling him no to the case, nor was he mad. John was a dominant, and had asked him to do something…

Sherlock stood beside John's chair a few heartbeats later, an apology falling from his lips.

John smiled, set his tea down, and turned to look at the detective. "Kneel," he murmured, his voice just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

The beginnings of a blush burned across Sherlock's cheeks as he sunk to his knees beside John's chair. He squirmed in the position, feeling strangely bare and very much out of place.

"Good boy," John said, his right hand gently carding through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock shivered and seemed to sink in on himself when he heard John's words. It scared him to think about how natural this felt; how kneeling beside John's chair while the doctor stroked his fingers across his scalp was so comforting. The thing that scared Sherlock the most, however, was how he didn't care that he was afraid.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, his hand travelling to rest on the brunet's shoulder.

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his tight throat to form words.

"I'm afraid this is the only way I'll be able to investigate _Leather_ with you," John admitted, squeezing the base of his flatmate's neck. "If you still want to go, I should probably teach you some etiquette so that you don't draw as much attention."

Sherlock nodded. "That's acceptable, John. Unexpected, but definitely acceptable," he replied, chancing a glance up at the doctor.

John met his eyes with a kind smile, his hand resuming its pull through Sherlock's curls. "Within the club, you will essentially belong to me, Sherlock. You will need to defer to my wishes at all times without question. I won't do anything to harm you, nor humiliate you, but I will act as the situation demands. Do you understand that?" he asked.

"That will be difficult for me, John," the detective admitted.

John nodded. "I know. Which is why, with your permission of course, I'd like to show you the ropes, think about some rules, and maybe establish some tasks for you to do before we visit the club," he explained.

Sherlock swallowed audibly and nodded. "How do we start?" he asked.

"First, why don't you sit in your chair and drink the cuppa I made you," John replied, reaching for Sherlock's tea. "You can use this time to gather your thoughts and ask any questions you want."

Sherlock quickly took his seat and drank from his tea. It was the perfect temperature, and just sweet enough. He liked the way it seemed to warm him from the inside out, just like John's touch had, not that he would mention it. "I've done some basic research," he said after a moment.

"What did you read?" John asked, picking up his own teacup, cradling the warm porcelain in his hands.

"Basically that there are two parties involved in a BDSM relationship. The Dominant takes control of the submissive, and they are usually sexually involved," Sherlock said, his cheeks pinking up ever so slightly. He averted his eyes to study the floor, the yellow smiley face on the wall, even back to the contents of his teacup; basically anywhere John's eyes couldn't lock with his. His head snapped up incredulously when John laughed.

"Well, that's the most basic description I've ever heard," he said. "It's not wrong, but it's not entirely right, either."

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. "Then do explain it to me, John," he snapped, setting his teacup noisily on the side table, not paying attention when some of the tea sloshed over the side.

"Well, it's more that just giving and taking power," John started, rubbing the back of his neck. "The base of any BDSM relationship is trust, Sherlock. That's why you would have to listen to my instructions in the club. You would trust that I would make the decision that is the best for you, even if it is not the one that you would have made."

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, still avoiding John's eyes.

"However," the doctor continued, "if this is just going to make you uncomfortable, I'll call up an old ex and see if she'll go with me. I can wear camera glasses and you could watch the live feed."

Sherlock wasn't sure why he blurted out a loud no so quickly, and he was confused by the way his stomach clenched uncomfortably. John seemed to understand though, for he was bent down in front of Sherlock, his sturdy, calloused hands gently stroking over the detective's pale face before Sherlock could even register that something was wrong.

"Sherlock? When was the last time you slept?" John asked, his voice changing to the tone he often used with his patients at the clinic.

Blinking hard, Sherlock tried to remember when he last slept so he could answer John's question. "I don't know,"' he admitted after a moment. He didn't register nuzzling into John's hand, nor the frown on his flatmate's face.

"Go to bed, Sherlock. We can finish talking about this tomorrow," John instructed, helping the detective to his feet.

Sherlock nodded once and hazily stumbled down the hallway to his room. He absentmindedly stripped to his pants and crawled into bed, staring up at the ceiling. He felt floaty after being the center of John's attention for so long. Instead of panicking, like he would do if he were in his right mind, Sherlock let the floaty headspace carry him away. He didn't hear John take care of the night's dishes, he wasn't aware when the doctor stepped into his room to pull the covers up over his shoulders and add an extra blanket, and he was sound asleep by the time John made his way to his own bedroom, the fourth step from the top groaning under his foot. That night, Sherlock felt safe and warm, his mind was at peace, and a smile was on his face. Nothing could touch him.


	2. Delving Deeper

When he woke up the next morning, Sherlock was confused. He didn't remember going to bed, and he definitely didn't remember taking off his clothes. Running his fingers through his hair, Sherlock sat up in bed, noting the appearance of the extra blanket. He froze when he realized it was John's. What had happened last night? The last thing Sherlock remembered was sipping his tea in his chair while he talked with John.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Sherlock got out of bed and pulled on a clean shirt and pajama pants, tugging his blue dressing gown over his shoulders when he was dressed. He tried to be quiet as he made his way into the kitchen, turning on the kettle. He jumped when he heard John's cup clinking against the wooden coffee table.

John looked up from his paper and watched as Sherlock went about making tea. He smiled softly at the detective's slightly rumpled appearance. "Morning, Sherlock," he called out, turning the page of his newspaper.

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face John. "What happened last night?" he asked, his eyes locking on John's.

"You don't remember?" John asked, his paper dropping to reveal furrowed eyebrows.

Sherlock shook his head. "The last thing I remember is sitting in my chair drinking tea. We were discussing the new case," he said.

"You zoned out on me, so I told you to go to bed. I popped in after you were asleep and put the extra blanket over you," John said.

Sherlock blinked a few times before nodding.

"Nothing happened between us, if that's what you're worried about," John supplied, rising to attend to the steaming kettle.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, his voice sharp.

John turned and shot the detective a look before pouring two new mugs of tea.

"Your hair isn't mussed, and your shoulder is relaxed. Whenever you have sex, it troubles you the next day," Sherlock said, standing behind his chair to look out the window.

"Don't snap at me, Sherlock. It's a bit not good," John warned, handing the detective his morning tea.

Sherlock bristled at John's words, his spine straightening and chest puffing out. "I didn't snap," he countered.

John raised an eyebrow and tightened his grip on the second teacup. "Oh really?" he asked.

Everything about John seemed to challenge Sherlock, and the detective wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Normally, he would push back and challenge John in return. But snippets of last night flashed through his mind, and Sherlock shrank back, reverting to his normal stance. Though he tried, Sherlock couldn't put his finger on why he found he couldn't challenge John.

"I think," John started, "That we need to talk about what happened last night."

Sherlock found himself nodding at John's statement. A moment later, he found himself perched on the back of his chair, his feet against the cool, supple leather.

"Sherlock, do you trust me?" John asked, echoing his question from the previous night.

"Of course, John," Sherlock replied.

John smiled and sank into his chair. "I'm glad you do," he said, pausing to drink from his tea. "Because I think we need to have a small scene, Sherlock."

The detective stiffened. "Why? That sounds like a waste of time."

"Because, like I said last night, if we're going into _Leather_ as a couple, I'll be acting as your dominant. I know how hard it is for you to actually obey my requests, but that's what everyone there will expect from you. A small scene here would introduce you to that in a familiar setting, so it shouldn't be as much of a shock for you," John replied, pausing to take another drink. "It will also be easier to care for you if you drop into subspace."

"What makes you think I'd drop into subspace?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

John smirked. "Because I'm pretty sure you dropped last night, Sherlock."

The detective rolled his eyes. "I'm sure I would remember something like that, John," he said.

The doctor shook his head. "Not necessarily. Subspace is different for everyone. Besides, this exercise would be as much for me as for you."

"Why would you need it?" Sherlock asked.

John was quiet for a moment, abandoning his teacup and sitting up straight in his chair. "Come kneel by my chair like you did last night and I'll tell you," he said.

Sherlock stared at John for a few heartbeats before curiosity got the best of him. He kneeled by his flatmate's chair and was still.

"That's good, Sherlock" John murmured, his right hand once again carding through the detective's curls. "I'm proud of you."

"There's no need to praise me like a dog, John," Sherlock said, ducking his head to hide the hot flush on his cheeks.

John chuckled. "And yet, you like it. Which is fine by the way; it's all fine."

"So why do you need this, John?" Sherlock pushed.

John fisted his hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling ever so slightly. He smirked as his flatmate gasped, his grey eyes seeking out John's own deep blue, his neck arcing back to expose that long, pale neck. "Because, Sherlock," John said, "I need to learn how to read you in these kinds of situations."

"I'm not sure I understand," Sherlock admitted, blinking owlishly a few times.

John let go of Sherlock's head and resumed carding his fingers through the dark locks. "Think of it as me attempting to deduce you," he said. "When we're acting as a couple, I'm going to need to know everything that's going on inside that brilliant head of yours. There may be times when you won't be able to talk freely. Even so, I'll still have to know how far I can push you, Sherlock."

He felt his flatmate shiver under his touch. John smiled. "I can tell that right now you're embarrassed, but you like having your hair played with."

Sherlock nodded minutely. "Accurate deduction, John. So how do we proceed?"

"Well, I'd like to give you a few… tasks, ok? Nothing too much, just enough," John said, pulling his hand back to his lap. It wouldn't do well to have Sherlock distracted now.

"What tasks?" he asked.

"First, I'd like it if you started eating regularly. The amounts will mostly be up to you, as will the times you eat. I'd be very happy if you kept a record of the foods you do eat. I'll be checking with you at night before I go to bed," John said.

Sherlock frowned. "Eating slows me down, John. Surely you remember that," he said.

John nodded. "_Leather_ can be hot, and you'll be exerting yourself. You'll need to eat to keep up with everything. I won't have you passing out on me in the middle of a stakeout," he said.

"Ok. I'll do that for you, John. Thank you for explaining," Sherlock said.

"I won't always be able to explain myself, Sherlock. Nor will I. You'll have to learn to trust me explicitly."

"Then how will I communicate if something is wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll have a safeword, Sherlock," John replied. "That's my second task for you. I want for you to do some research on fetishes and make me a few lists, ok?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured.

"That's a good boy, Sherlock. On the first list, I want for you to tell me anything and everything you'd feel comfortable doing in public. On the second list, tell me the things that would challenge you to do in public. The third list will be activities that are not to happen under any circumstances, ok? Include your safeword on each list, too," John said.

Sherlock nodded and fidgeted in his spot. "John, can I change positions? My knees hurt," he asked.

"Count to sixty for me, Sherlock, and hold it for just one more minute," John replied, turning to watch the detective.

"One," he began, taking care not to rush through the numbers. Sherlock seemed to sink into his kneel even more, his eyebrows pinching together, the veins throbbing in his neck. When the detective murmured "sixty" he looked up at John as if asking permission.

"Go on ahead and move, Sherlock," he said, smiling at his flat mate. John winced in sympathy as Sherlock moved, his knees cracking as he shifted his legs out from under him. He settled with them off to the side, his head leaning against John's armrest.

"You did so well, Sherlock. Thank you for doing that for me," John murmured, stroking through the detective's curls.

John was surprised when Sherlock seemed to melt into his touch. He'd never thought that his flatmate's scalp was that sensitive. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, both content.

"John?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. "Thank you."

"For what?" John said.

"For being right and having me experience this here," the brunet said, leaning into John's touch.

"You're welcome. How are you feeling?" John asked.

"Good," Sherlock replied. "My mind is quiet… it's a nice change of pace."

John smiled. "I'm glad it made you feel good; that's what it's supposed to do."

"Can I move now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I'm going to go for a walk, ok? Why don't you start on that research for me," John replied, standing from his chair. He held out a hand to Sherlock, grasping his hand to help him up. The two didn't say anything else; Sherlock slipped down the hall to his bedroom, and John pulled on his shoes and coat before heading down the stairs.

It was crisp and cool outside, and John found it was just what he needed to gather his thoughts after Sherlock had jumbled them so thoroughly. This was going to be a dangerous case for them, possibly the most dangerous. John hoped that he and Sherlock could get through it in one piece, and hopefully, with their friendship still standing.


	3. Getting Acquainted

**Here's the third part. Up until now, I've been posting pretty regularly. From this point on, I'm not sure how that will hold up. My work tends to be pretty quiet at night, allowing me time to write, and I do hope it's quiet tonight so I can work on the fourth chapter, but no promises on punctuality. I should, however, have it up by Friday at the latest. The rest of this is all outlined, I just need to spend a few days cranking out the actual story. **

**As always, all mistakes are mine. (I think I got rid of all "Americanisms".) I hope you enjoy the third chapter. **

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Two days passed before John was comfortable taking Sherlock out to _Leather_. During his lunch break, he had fired off a text to the detective giving him instructions for the afternoon before tucking into his ham and cheese sandwich. The only reply he got from Sherlock was a picture message of a sandwich and an apple, side by side on one of their plates, about fifteen minutes after he sent out his instructions. With a smile, John silenced his phone and went about finishing his day at the clinic. Sarah had been pleased with the hours he'd been putting in, and the paycheck he would earn would be a bonus.

When six pm rolled around, he strolled out the front door, sparing a wave to Sarah as he made his way to the tube station. The journey back to Baker Street took longer than usual, and by the time John passed through his front door, he was beginning to second-guess going out tonight. It was the sight of his flatmate that changed his mind. Sherlock hovered by the kettle in the kitchen, clad only in his pants and his dressing gown. His hair was still damp from the shower John had asked him to take all those hours ago. Instantly, John found his weariness melting from his body, the feeling being replaced by his pride in Sherlock.

"You showered," he said, toeing off his shoes.

Sherlock turned to look at him and nodded. "You asked me to," he commented.

"Thank you. I'm proud of you. But why aren't you dressed?" John asked, swallowing thickly around nothing. He wasn't sure why the sight of his flatmate dressed as he was bothered him. After all, he'd seen Sherlock parade around the flat in that particular get up before, and it hadn't bothered him then. So why now? John refused to think on it.

"I didn't know what to wear. I've never been anywhere like _Leather_ before. I wanted to ask you, but I didn't want to bother you at work. That would have made you mad," Sherlock replied.

John nodded and walked through the kitchen, pausing in front of Sherlock's door. "Shall I help you pick something out?" he asked, waiting for his flatmate's permission.

Sherlock nodded and followed John through the threshold to his room. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed and watched as John leafed through his closet. He paused at each article of clothing, silently scrutinizing the cloth before sliding each hanger away from him and moving on to the next one. After what felt like a lifetime, John finally settled on a pair of black jeans Sherlock never wore accompanied by his plum button down.

"Wear shoes that are comfortable, but still look nice. I'm going to have a shower and get dressed. When I'm done, I expect you in the kitchen with some noodles boiled, ok?" John said, walking towards the door.

"Yes, John. Thank you for helping me," Sherlock replied, promptly pulling the jeans on. Satisfied, John retreated to his bathroom and cranked up the hot water. He needed all the help he could to wash the day's weariness from his body. He needed to be on high alert tonight; he knew he had to both watch out for Sherlock and for the potential killer.

As he washed, John wondered about how the night would go. Anyone could appreciate the fact that Sherlock Holmes was beautiful, and some would even go as far to say that he was sex personified. John knew that his flatmate would draw a lot of attention; new meat, especially beautiful new meat, tended to do that whether the person was claimed or not. As he rinsed shampoo from his hair, John hoped that the people in _Leather_ believed that Sherlock was his. It struck John as he was toweling off that he didn't have a way to show others that Sherlock was claimed. Shit.

With that problem weaving through his mind, John tied the towel around his waist and stepped into his room. He didn't notice Sherlock hovering in his doorway, breezing by the detective to open up his armoire. John dug out his old fetish bag, and turned around to set it down on the edge of his bed. Carefully, he unzipped the black duffle and pulled out items he used to play with all those years ago. He laid out his ropes, first the black, then the red. The two floggers he owned came out next, followed by a gag, a paddle, and a riding crop.

"What are you looking for?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained.

John jumped and turned to look at his flatmate. "Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me. Ever heard of knocking?" He noticed that Sherlock's pupils were slightly dilated, and he looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"I did knock. You were in the shower," he replied, licking his lips, taking care to avoid John's gaze. "Now what are you looking for?"

John huffed. "Some way to show everyone at the club tonight that you are mine. I was thinking either my dogtags or some leather cuffs. That way your chances of others interfering with us will be smaller," he replied, pulling out a pair of black wrist cuffs. He gently laid them down on the left side of his bag, in Sherlock's line of site. "What do you think about that, Sherlock? Would you be comfortable wearing something that tied you to me?"

Sherlock nodded. "Both sound good, John. That way there's no doubt who I'm there with," he said, walking to John's bed. He offered up his wrists, palm up, eyes frozen on the floor. He jumped when John's hand tilted his chin up.

"I'll put them on you later. Right now, I need to get dressed. Will you go downstairs and heat up some canned sauce for the pasta, please?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded and ghosted out of the room, leaving John's door open as he went. The doctor stood still for a moment, watching the path the detective had just walked, attempting to gather his thoughts. It was only when the microwave beeped downstairs that John had decided what he was going to wear.

It had been a good six months since he had last poured himself into his black leather trousers, but as John fastened the button at the top, he was proud to say they still fit like they had all that time ago. Socks and his black combat boots followed the trousers, and a maroon button down was quick to be added. For a finishing touch, he took the smallest length of black rope he had and looped it through his belt loops so that it hung loosely to one side. Looking in the mirror, John ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it just so. Giving himself a once over, he decided that he was happy with what he saw. By no means did he look like he did back in his twenties, before Afghanistan, but he looked good enough for his age. John nodded once at his reflection before turning away to retrieve his dogtags and the black wrist cuffs for Sherlock. His stomach growled as he left his bedroom.

Dinner with Sherlock was a quiet affair, neither man talking, nor making eye contact. Sherlock seemed jumpy, and John was quickly getting annoyed. When both were finished eating, John rinsed their plates and headed to the door.

Sherlock lingered in the kitchen, not quite knowing what to do. He felt so out of place, and was beginning to wonder if he should really go along with John. Taking care to pack away the leftovers, Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth. When he turned towards the door, his gaze locked with John's. He wasn't sure why John was frowning.

"Sherlock, will you please bring me the cuffs and dogtags?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and did as he was asked, his hands shaking as they wrapped around the lengths of chains and leather. He approached John cautiously and offered up the cuffs and tags, bottom lip straining white between his teeth.

John took a deep breath and locked his gaze with Sherlock's. "If you'd rather not do this, that's ok. I'll still go to _Leather_ and take a look around with Greg. You can turn around now and go back to your experiments or something," he said.

Sherlock took a moment and let his mind race. He weighed the pros and cons of going as he was, and also of staying home. He even entertained going and attempting to pass as a dominant. One look at John though, and the decision made itself. "I want to go with you, John," he said.

John nodded. "Then will you wear my cuffs and tags for the night, Sherlock? From the moment I put them on you to the moment I take them off, you will be my responsibility. Are you okay with that?"

"Yes, John. I trust you," Sherlock said, offering up his wrists again.

John nodded and walked back to his chair, sitting on the edge. "Come here and kneel for me. Put your wrists in my lap," he said.

Sherlock did so, gracefully falling to his knees, placing his wrists palm up on John's lap. He swallowed thickly as the doctor buckled the supple black leather around his left wrist, taking great care to make sure it was neither on too tight, nor too loose. Soon enough, his right wrist was cuffed too and John was slipping his dogtags over his neck. Sherlock was overwhelmed by just how safe he felt.

John smiled at the detective and carefully placed a kiss on each cuffed wrist. "Let's go, pet," he said. "Greg is probably waiting on us."

Obediently, Sherlock rose and followed John as he left their apartment. He was quiet and went willingly when John maneuvered him into a cab with one strong hand pressed against his lower back. He leaned against John's body inside the cab, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder, breathing him in. John smelled like home, and Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that spread across his lips.

John gave the address to _Leather_ and turned to his flatmate. You ok, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Just feel a little floaty. I'll snap out of it soon, I think," he replied, closing his eyes. He must have dozed off there on John's shoulder, for he didn't remember anything else of the cab ride until John was shaking him awake, his voice softly calling his name. Sherlock let John led the way into _Leather_, that warm hand strong on his lower back again, and smiled as the doctor greeted the bouncer with a handshake and a smile.

Going into it, Sherlock had no idea what being inside _Leather_ was going to be like. Theoretically, he knew there would be a lot of people, and that most of them would be scantily clad. But nothing could have prepared Sherlock for the sheer onslaught to his senses. His mind was reeling as he tried to take in all the stimuli around him, all of it screaming "sex!" Sherlock was so thankful for John's hand steering him through the crowd; the doctor's touch seemed to anchor him and pull his mind back a bit. Still, he looked around, his eyes wide and pupils dilated under the dim lighting, attempting to make sense of something. He was brought back to the moment when he heard Lestrade speak.

"John, Sherlock, it's good to see you both. Please, have a seat," the detective inspector said.

Sherlock turned to John, glancing back and forth between the two empty seats next to Lestrade and John's eyes. The doctor nodded, and Sherlock made to sit in the stool farthest from Greg. He stopped when John slipped into the seat before he could.

"I want you between us. You look like you're having trouble adjusting, and I want to keep an eye on you, ok?" John explained, leaning in to whisper into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock nodded and smiled softly at John. "Thank you," he mouthed, turning his gaze to the bartenders on either side of them. If he concentrated hard enough, he could probably deduce them…

"Is he ok?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to Sherlock.

John nodded. "He's… surprisingly receptive to submission. He almost dropped into subspace when I put his cuffs on tonight," John replied.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "His cuffs? You two are together, then?" he asked.

John shook his head. "We're just flatmates. I asked him to wear the cuffs as a precaution," he said.

"Precaution? Afraid someone will snatch him up?" Lestrade teased, chuckling at the blonde.

"No. To prevent him from getting felt up. It's clear as day that Sherlock is a beautiful man. He'd get eaten alive here if everyone thought he was unclaimed," John replied.

Lestrade was silent, looking over the two with a glint in his eye. "If you say so, John," he said after a moment, smirking at him. "Now, how should we go about this?"

John quickly looked around the club, thankful that it hadn't changed much, if at all, since his last visit. "Divide and conquer," he said. "You should stick close to the bar and the dance floor. Talk to pretty women, single men, basically fish around for information."

"And what will you and Sherlock do?" Lestrade asked.

"I'll take him on around the room. We'll sweep from one side to the other, and then we'll go up by where public play is popular. We may watch something, we may not. When he tells me he has enough information for the night, we'll touch base with you before heading back to Baker Street," John decided. He could already tell that Sherlock would be out of his comfort zone the entire night, and he didn't want to ask more of him than he could give.

Lestrade nodded. "Works for me, John. Think you can handle the great Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

"I'm certain I can," John replied. "While _Leather_ can be overwhelming for first timers, I have the upper hand advantage here."

"You act like you've been here before, John," Lestrade commented, nursing his pint.

John smirked and winked at the DI. "Who says I haven't?"

Lestrade gaped, his gaze fixed on the doctor and jaw slack as John gently roused Sherlock from whatever daze he'd been in. He noticed John's hand on Sherlock's lower back as he steered the detective away from the bar.

"We'll be back later, Lestrade. Don't wander too far," John said. He was in full dominant mode, and he loved making people squirm. The look on Lestrade's face was priceless, and John was sure he could at least get the man to blush by the end of the night if he tried… No, he had to focus on Sherlock and steer him through the crowd so he could absentmindedly sweep the crowd with his glazed-over eyes.

It was moments later when he bumped into a tall, sturdy form, Sherlock jumping at his side. "I'm sorry, mate. Wasn't paying attention," John said, offering up an apology to the man.

The man turned around and grinned at John and Sherlock. "It's fine, mate. I'd hardly be looking where I was going if I had someone like that on my arm," he said, gesturing to Sherlock. "It's sure been a while since I've seen you around, Captain Watson."

John smiled up at the man, recognizing his face. "It has been a while, Charlie. How are things?" he asked, offering up his hand for a shake.

Charlie grasped John's hand, squeezing it as he shook it. "It's been going swell, mate. Been through a few subs, but that's how it goes. This is the girl I'm considering. Say hello to Captain Watson, Clarissa," the larger man said, gesturing to the petite girl by his side.

"Hello, Captain Watson," she said, her voice meek.

John turned to look at her, his eyes raking over her form. She was small, only standing as high as John's chest, with dark hair and wide, green eyes. She was thin, too, her waist impossibly tiny in the blood red corset she was wearing. John couldn't help but wonder if it was one she was wearing for appearances, or if she was actually laced tight inside the fabric. John was snapped out of his assessment when Charlie cleared his throat.

"Who's this _delectable_ hunk on your arm, John?" Charlie asked, eyeing up Sherlock.

Instantly, John bristled. Even though he liked Charlie, he was uncomfortable with the way he was eyeing up Sherlock. John wrapped his hand around the detective's hip, pulling him against his own body. "This is my… Sherlock," John said carefully. He wasn't sure how to introduce Sherlock; this was something they'd never discussed. John mentally kicked himself for allowing such a precious detail to slip.

"Hello, Sherlock," Charlie said, offering his hand to the detective.

Sherlock turned to John, silently asking permission to shake the stranger's hand. It was only with John's nod that Sherlock grasped Charlie's hand and shook it once before dropping it as if the other man's touch had burnt. "Hello," he murmured just loud enough for the four of them to hear.

Charlie tsked in disappointment. "This one doesn't have manners does he, John? I expected better knowing he's your sub," he commented, frowning.

John froze. "This is his first time out in public, Charlie. Surely you can forgive him for forgetting his manners." John turned to Sherlock and locked his gaze with his flatmate's stormy eyes. "Don't forget to address other dominants as 'sir' or 'ma'am' again, pet. I don't want to have to punish you tonight, especially after you've been so _good_ lately," John purred.

Sherlock felt his cheeks blaze. "I'm sorry, sir. I won't forget again," he said, his voice quivering. He wasn't sure why John's correction affected him so, but he went with it, cataloguing the rule for future use.

"He really is something, John. I bet you could cut yourself on those cheekbones… Have you tried?" Charlie commented, raising a hand to trace the top of Sherlock's cheek.

"It seems," John began, bristling at his friend's actions, "that Sherlock isn't the only one who's forgotten his manners tonight."

Sherlock turned to look at John and was surprised to see that John looked murderous. His eyes promised a painful end if Charlie even thought about touching Sherlock again, and his mouth was turned up ever so slightly on the right side.

Charlie stiffened and withdrew his hands. "You've never had a problem with me touching before, mate. Sorry."

"That's because you _asked_ before, Charlie. Now, if you'll excuse us, I want to show Sherlock the place," John said, placing his hand solidly against the small of his flatmate's back once again, using it as leverage to steer him away from the taller man. John could practically feel Charlie's eyes fixating on Sherlock's arse as they walked. John's hand lowered ever so slightly, resting on the fleshy swell that had captured Charlie's attention. John was staking a claim, and he wanted everyone at _Leather_ to know that Sherlock was spoken for, that Sherlock was _his_.


	4. Could Be Dangerous

** So sorry if the formatting for this chapter is a little off. I'm working on a few different computers, and they all don't like my google drive. Grrr. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Beware: there is sex. Also, in case you didn't tell, I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor the actors. **

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John steered Sherlock through the crowd and paused at the threshold to the community dungeon. There was a couple making use of the equipment, a tall blonde Domme and a petite submissive male. There was a small group of people scattered around the room, some lounging on couches and cushions while others were wrapped up in their partners along the walls. John always had loved community dungeons, there was something so unexplainably erotic about playing in public. A few of his past girlfriends had begged for a public scene, and John, being the man he is, willingly obliged them.

"Are you ok, Sherlock?" John asked, taking a moment to look his flatmate over. His eyes were dilated more than usual, and the detective was all but leaning against John. It seemed that their encounter with Charlie had shaken him. John didn't like seeing Sherlock so ruffled, especially because of someone else.

"I'll be fine, John. It's just… a lot to take in. I must admit, I was ill prepared for this evening," he replied, his eyes sweeping the room.

John nodded and steered them towards an empty loveseat in the back corner. Aside from allowing them a nice view of the ongoing scene, it also allowed Sherlock to see everyone in the room at once if he needed to. John settled in the loveseat and tossed a cushion on the floor.

"Why don't you sit on the floor for me, pet? Remember how you did the other night?" John asked.

"Can I sit cross-legged?" Sherlock asked. "It's easier on my knees."

"Of course, pet. Sit back against the couch though, I want to be able to touch you," John replied, sitting down. John spread his legs and gestured to the cushion on the floor, a clear sign for Sherlock to take a seat.

Sherlock stiffly sank to the floor and made sure his back was pressed back against the loveseat. John's hands soon were trailing over his shoulders and carding through his hair. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, grateful that John was doing this for him.

John leaned forward after a few moments, his breath puffing hotly against Sherlock's ear and neck. "I want you to look around the room and deduce everyone in your head. Can you do that for me, Sherlock?" he asked. "Store all that information in your Mind Palace for me?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded. "Yes, John. I can do that. The woman fucking that tied up man is a lawyer with two children. She- ah!" Sherlock's train of thought was derailed when John pulled his hair harshly, stretching his neck backwards.

"I said in your head, pet. You need to be quiet during the scene. If you continue talking, I'll be forced to fill that pretty mouth with something. And I'd rather not do that," John warned, his lips tickling against Sherlock's skin.

The detective shuddered as his eyes fluttered shut. He didn't dare speak, choosing instead to nod once John had released his hair.

No more words were exchanged between the two as the scene before them started to get louder. The domme was fucking her sub at a brutal pace, pulling noisy moans and mangled sentences from his throat.

"Quiet, slut. Or I'll find someone to shut you up," the woman growled, the hand not currently anchored on the man's hip gripping his hair and pulling back harshly.

Her boy tried to shut his mouth, the skin of his throat pulling taught. He pulled breaths harshly through his nose, and despite his attempts, he couldn't help but drop his jaw and moan obscenely when she hit his prostate at the perfect angle.

"My fucking slut loves cock, don't you?" she asked, slapping his ass with her free hand. "I bet you want a cock down your throat too, hmmm? That's why you can't fucking shut that whore mouth."

The man nodded furiously, his boring brown hair falling forward to shield half-lidded eyes blown black with lust.

The woman looked around at their spectators, slowing her tempo. "Well, he's open season, gents. Anyone who wants to fuck his mouth can," she said, raking her nails down her submissive's back. He moaned obscenely, tongue licking his lips in anticipation.

A tall, very well endowed man stepped forward, pulling his cock from his pants. He stroked the mushroom head a few times, peeling the foreskin back before presenting his length to the woman's sub. He eagerly licked at the stranger's cock, lapping up the glistening precum that had been smeared down the length.

The man didn't allow the poor submissive much time to adjust to having cock in his mouth. Quickly, he fisted his hands in the boy's hair and snapped his head forward, shoving all of his manhood down the willing throat.

John petted Sherlock's hair gently when the detective tensed. Leaning forward once more, John spoke to his flatmate. "Are you ok, or is this too much?"

"I'm fine, John," he replied, his voice breathy and high.

"No you're not. Come up here, pet," John said, pulling back on Sherlock's shoulder. The taller man quickly climbed up on the loveseat with the doctor and sat straight as a board. Looking over Sherlock, John was surprised to see his jeans slightly tented, his breath coming in ragged pants. Sherlock's eyes looked wild, whirling around the room as if they were unable to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds. Pulling a breath through his teeth, John pulled the length of black rope from his belt loop.

"Give me your wrists, Sherlock," he ordered, voice soft but firm.

The taller man looked at him, his eyes wide, and presented his wrists.

As if dealing with a wounded animal, John carefully wound the rope around the cuffs, tying it in a simple knot in the middle. The black rope contrasted beautifully against Sherlock's pale skin and complemented the supple leather cuffs. The knot was loose enough that Sherlock could escape the bonds if he wanted, but tight enough to hopefully ground him. He looked like he truly belonged to John, and the doctor was surprised at how his cock twitched in interest at that thought.

When Sherlock met his gaze, John was relieved to notice that his flatmate's eyes seemed less manic than before. Sherlock smiled softly at him and leaned against his side, tucking his head on John's neck. John smiled to himself as he wrapped his right hand around the knot between Sherlock's wrist, stroking the skin of the detective's palms. "Relax, Sherlock. I've got you," he murmured just loud enough so that Sherlock could hear him.

Sherlock went boneless against John, his eyes glued on the submissive being spit-roasted. He wasn't sure which end he liked watching more, the swollen, red lips stretched wide around a rather impressive cock, or the plush, supple ass jiggling as the woman fucked him hard and fast. Taking a shaky breath, Sherlock licked his dry lips, all too aware of the way John was touching him.

"What's your favorite part?" John asked, his voice unusually rough.

Sherlock jumped. "I don't know," he replied, feeling a blush burn across his cheeks. It was bad enough to have an erection in public, but the fact that John knew he was aroused seemed to make him throb harder in his jeans. Sherlock wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"His ass is very nice. Bet it's plenty tight," John commented. Sherlock could hear the lust tainting the doctor's voice, and he squirmed.

"You like men?" Sherlock asked suddenly, turning to look at John's eyes.

"I like some men, yes," John replied, licking his own lips. "I take it you like men, too?"

Sherlock nodded minutely, ducking his head. "I hope that doesn't compromise things," he murmured.

John chuckled and pulled him in close. "Not at all. Now watch. He's getting ready to cum down that sub's throat. I bet he's going to swallow it all like a good boy. What do you think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock whimpered and stared as the well endowed man erupted down the sub's throat, moaning his appreciation as orgasm overtook him. Sure enough, Sherlock could see the sub swallowing around the length still down his throat, his eyes closed in bliss.

"Slut's got a good mouth. Thanks for sharing him," the man said, ruffling the sub's hair before returning to his seat to watch the rest of the show.

"Hear that?" the woman said, pulling out of the man. "He liked your mouth. What do you say, slut?"

"Thank you, Sir," the man replied hoarsely, licking his lips, no doubt still able to taste the dominant's cum.

The woman grinned and took off her strap-on, laying it down on a hand towel laid out behind them. "I want to see how eager that mouth is, boy," she said, pulling out a chair. She sat down on it and leaned back with her legs spread. "Come and eat my pussy, boy," she ordered.

"Yes, Mistress," he said. The boy grimaced, but kneeled before her, mouth immediately descending to service the woman.

"He's such a good boy. He'll eat me out all night if I ask him," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Beg for it, slut. Beg to use your tongue on me."

Sherlock's breath was ragged against his neck, and John found himself counting the seconds between each inhale and exhale. He frowned when the breaths came more often. Gently, John hooked the fingers of his left hand through the chain of his dogtags and pulled back enough so that the metal would bite into Sherlock's overheated skin.

Sherlock tensed for a moment before slumping back against John's body, his eyes wide and jaw dropping open, pulling in a deep breath. "Breathe steady for me, Sherlock," John whispered.

Sherlock did as he was told, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head in their search for John's gaze. The two locked eyes as Sherlock steadied his breathing.

"That's it. Focus on me, pet. On my tags around your neck, my cuffs and rope around your wrists. I've got you," John said, tightening his grip on the dogtags.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he squirmed in John's lap, hips bucking up searching for friction in the air. He huffed and whimpered in desperation, pulling the attention of a few people close by, but neither man noticed.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Sherlock? I need you to catalogue every person in this room for your Mind Palace. Once you do that, and the scene is done, we'll tell Lestrade we're leaving and go back to Baker Street," John said, releasing his grip on the dogtags.

Sherlock gasped and snapped his eyes open, looking around the room at everyone, taking in all the information he could. He babbled, voice broken and low as he studied each and every person in the dungeon, naming careers and forming deductions based on how corsets were laced.

"Quietly, Sherlock. People are starting to stare," John chastised softly, yanking the dogtags against Sherlock's neck once more.

"I can't help it," he whispered, eyes snapping back to John's familiar blue.

"Then I will help," John said, dropping the tags. A protesting whine fell from Sherlock's lips, morphing into an obscene moan when John's steady hand wrapped around his neck, the pressure just enough to snap him back into action.

Sherlock's eyes were everywhere, and he was quiet. John squeezed rhythmically with the detective's breaths. He did his best to look around the room, but his gaze kept returning to the sub, now spread out on a table, his hard, tied up cock being teased.

"Beg for your orgasm, slut," his mistress ordered, stroking his length firmly.

All sorts of things spilled from the submissive's mouth. "Please let me cum, Mistress. I've been good for you, haven't I? I've earned it, haven't I?" he said.

"Not good enough," the woman said, pulling her hand away as she stepped back. "I don't think you really want it."

The cycle went on for a good few minutes, Sherlock growing hotter under his hand as the submissive's cock got redder and redder, the tip turning purple with blood. He moaned alongside the submissive when his mistress removed the bondage from his straining erection.

"You really want to cum, slut," the woman asked, resting her hand on the submissive's throat.

The submissive nodded.

John's eyes widened as he saw Sherlock nod alongside the submissive. "Whatever she says, you are not cumming here in public, Sherlock. Do you understand me?" he hissed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his and John about lost it. "Please, John," Sherlock moaned.

"Don't you dare," John whispered, watching as the woman leaned in close and bit at her submissive's neck, leaving behind an angry red mark.

Sherlock whined and squirmed against John as the doctor's grip tightened around his neck.

"Watch him, Sherlock. But you are not going to cum until we are _home_," John ordered.

Sherlock watched as the submissive squirmed on the table, his erection jerking to his erratic heartbeat.

"Then cum, slut," the woman finally said, standing back from her submissive.

Sherlock's eyes widened as the man came instantly without a single touch to his cock, thick ropes of sticky white cum splattering all over his torso as a scream was ripped from his throat. His orgasm seemed to last forever, his back arching steeply off the table. He contorted into a few nearly impossible positions before sinking bonelessly back against the table, his breathing ragged and slow, eyes shut.

"Good boy," John murmured, releasing his throat. "Let's go say goodbye to Lestrade and go home, Sherlock."

Silently, Sherlock rose from the couch and allowed John to pull him through the club by the knot between his wrists. Had he been in his right mind, he would have scoffed at his appearance and righted himself before leaving the dungeon. but as he was, he followed as he was, erection still straining against his jeans, wrists bound before him, and a red handprint on his neck from where John had gripped him.

He didn't remember anything John said to Lestrade, but blushed hotly when the DI gave him a once over complete with a cocked eyebrow. He whined meekly in protest when John undid the rope from his wrists, but was silenced with one look from the doctor. He vaguely remembered Lestrade chuckling as he was guided out of _Leather_, but it didn't bother him. Nothing else bothered him until they were back in Baker Street, the door shut and locked firmly behind them.

As he heard the lock, Sherlock dropped to his knees. All at once, everything he deduced from the night spilled forth composed of broken sentences and ragged breaths. John let it go on for a full three minutes before he called Sherlock's name, only to be ignored.

Walking across the room, he fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair and pulled up, clenching his jaw when the detective's glazed eyes met his. "Come back to me, Sherlock. Focus for me," he said.

Sherlock swallowed and quieted, his lips peeking out between his lips to wet them. "John, please," he whispered. "Help me."

So John did. He pulled Sherlock onto the couch with him, wrapping a finger through the rings of both wrist cuffs, pulling the detective's hands back into his lap. Fingers stroked whatever soft skin they encountered, rubbing gentle circles as John carefully unbuckled the left cuff.

Sherlock whined at the loss, instantly missing the comfortable weight. He gasped when John raised his wrist to his mouth and placed a feather light kiss on his skin. The process was completed with the second wrist, John's fingers soothing his heated skin.

"Come for me, Sherlock. You've been such a good boy tonight," John growled, wrapping his hand around the detective's throat once more.

Sherlock came instantly, crying out John's name as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. He sagged back against John, unknowingly murmuring his name over and over again, only pausing to press kisses into the doctor's neck.

John held him for a few minutes and allowed him to return to his senses. "Go shower and get ready for bed, Sherlock. I'll come tuck you in in twenty minutes, ok?" he said, stroking over the skin of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock nodded and quickly disappeared into his own bathroom, the hiss of the shower audible in the living room.

John ran a hand through his hair and made his way to the kitchen, filling the kettle with clean water. While he waited for it to boil, he tried to get visions of his flatmate out of his head. All he could see was Sherlock. Sherlock on his knees, lips wrapped around his hard cock as he fucked his flatmate's throat, Sherlock bent over their kitchen table as John turned his ass red, Sherlock moaning his name as he slammed in and out of his arse, the deliciously plump globes of flesh rippling as his hips slapped against them, Sherlock cumming hard for him, spilling his seed into the sheets of their bed as John came deep inside him… Each vision was as tantalizing as the last, and John found it difficult to shut it all away and focus on making tea, but he managed.

He took his time sipping the chamomile blend, carefully sorting through his thoughts. He heard the shower shut off halfway through his cuppa. He watched the clock, giving Sherlock five minutes as he finished his tea. when the five minutes were up, he walked down the hallway to Sherlock's room, knocking on the door, waiting for permission to enter.

"Come in," Sherlock said, his voice quiet.

John walked in and smiled. Sherlock was nestled in under the covers, John's extra blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes were closed, and his face looked peaceful if the tiny smile on his lips were anything to go by. Carefully, John sat on the side of his flatmate's bed and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Good night, Sherlock. You did so well tonight," he murmured, raising his hand to card through slightly damp curls.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open, warm and grey. "Will you stay with me, John?" he asked, nuzzling into his hand.

John's breath caught in his chest at the vision. If someone had told him two weeks ago that Sherlock was an affectionate cuddler in bed, he would have laughed and sent them to an optometrist for a check up. But now, he couldn't imagine the other man as anything but.

"I want to, but I think it's best if I go for tonight," John replied, tracing across one of Sherlock's impossible cheekbones.

Sherlock pouted and turned his head to place a kiss on the pad of John's thumb. "But I want you to stay. Please?" he asked.

John bit his lip. "Not tonight, pet. Now off to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow," he replied, making sure Sherlock's body was covered in blankets. It was supposed to be a cool night, and he didn't need his flatmate to catch cold. He stayed perched on the side of Sherlock's bed, rubbing gentle circles on his hand until he was sure the detective was asleep.

"Sleep well, and sweet dreams, Sherlock," he murmured, bending to press a kiss to Sherlock's curls. After one more blanket check, John tip-toed to his own room and crawled into bed. He would later deny turning one of his spare pillows vertically, burying his face in it, and sleeping with his arm slung across it, but as John drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but think how much warmer his bed would be with Sherlock in it.


	5. Necessary Preparations

**Sorry for the shortness of this chapter. This and the next one were originally intended to be one long piece, but this seemed like a good stopping point. (Especially since my smut scenes can get a little long.) As always, let me know what you think by dropping a comment or a review. My PM is also open for any kinds of messages - requests and prompts included. Cheers.**

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John woke late the next morning, his left shoulder stiff and aching from the way he'd slept on it. Sitting up in bed, the man ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed at his face. Chancing a glance at the clock, John swore when he saw it was already past eleven. Last night must have taken more out of him than he thought.

Walking down the stairs, John was greeted with the sight of his flatmate stretched out on the couch, his fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the ceiling above him. "Morning, Sherlock," John greeted, heading straight to the fridge, absentmindedly groping between jars of body parts for the half-dozen eggs no doubt hiding in the back. Like usual, John wasn't gifted with a reply. Pulling the eggs out, he cursed when he saw they'd all been compromised by one of Sherlock's experiments.

Stomping back up the stairs, John peeled off his pajamas, replacing them with casual jeans and his favorite oatmeal jumper. He trudged back downstairs and gruffly pulled his shoes and jacket back on. "Sherlock, I'm going to Tesco's for a few things. Do you need anything?" he asked. John was surprised when Sherlock sat up and looked at him.

"Order takeaway instead. Chinese from the place three blocks away. I'll have dumplings," he said.

John raised an eyebrow. "You want to eat?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm hungry, and I have some questions for you. I'm surprised you slept so late, John. Really, you're normally awake, even after a late night, by nine," Sherlock replied, watching as John fished through their drawer of takeaway menus to find the one he needed. "I'll wait to ask until you've phoned for food."

John nodded and dialed the number, placing their order as quickly as he could. While this particular place was Sherlock's favorite, the employees spoke very broken English, and more often than not, John lacked the patience to deal with them. Soon enough, he was promised a thirty minute delivery time and had hung up, sinking into his chair. He turned his attention to his flatmate when he cleared his throat.

"So, you have questions, yeah? Ask away," John said.

Sherlock studied him for a moment, as if gauging how to phrase his question. John thought that was preposterous, Sherlock never considered phrasing, so why would he this time? "You enjoyed last night," he said after a moment, eyes raking over John's face to take in his immediate reaction.

"Yes," John replied, unfazed. "That wasn't a question though, Sherlock."

"Would you do it again?" Sherlock asked.

John considered for a moment before nodding briefly. "If necessary. Did you get enough information last night?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing really useful. I'm afraid I didn't plan for the initial shock I experienced. Most of last night is fuzzy at best, but a few memories stick out quite vividly."

"I'm curious to what you remember?" John prompted.

"Well, I remember you, John. Your words and actions. Beyond that, I don't remember much. Just that nobody there quite fit the profile for the killer. There were a few petite women, but that's not enough to pinpoint anyone. I need to go back and see them all again, maybe see if any of them have that brand," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing as he spoke. "It's discontenting not knowing."

"I understand that," John said. "Anything else?"

"Just that your friend touched me. I didn't like it, and you didn't either. I thought you were going to kill him," Sherlock murmured.

John chuckled. "I'm surprised that he was the only one to touch you, actually. Usually first timers have their claims challenged."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, sliding forward to balance on the edge of the couch.

"Oh yes. The first time I took Janette there, I had three other guys pawing at her within the first hour we were there. They backed off when I made my claim crystal clear," John replied.

"How did you do that? I'm assuming a verbal warning wasn't enough?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled and winked. "A bit of public play," he replied.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Will people question your claim on me? If they do, what do we do?" he asked.

John swallowed thickly. He'd never really considered it, especially with the cuffs. After the conversation between him and Charlie last night, John realized he'd been quite the idiot. Of _course_ people would test his bond with Sherlock, and he would be damned if he came off as anything less than Sherlock's partner.

"Well," John offered after a moment of silence, "that all depends on what you're comfortable with."

"I think, it depends entirely on the situation," Sherlock said. "There might be a situation where you'll have to scene with me, isn't there?"

Slowly, John nodded. "We should discuss some limits before we go tonight. Obviously you have those lists you did for me this last week, but you've still not tried any of them," he said.

"I agree," Sherlock said, standing from the couch. "But first, lunch. When we're finished eating, I want to see every item in your fetish bag. You're going to explain them to me in great detail,"

Just then, the buzzer went off, announcing the arrival of their lunch. John grumbled as he fished his wallet from his back pocket, pulling out enough notes to cover the cost of their food and a tip before trudging down the stairs. Knowing what was going to happen after lunch didn't help John's patience. Neither did delivery drivers that didn't speak English.

After lunch, John packed away the leftovers before turning to face his flatmate. "Now then," he started, "how do you want to do this?"

"Why don't you go get your bag and we'll talk through things here. The coffee table will hold everything, will it not?" Sherlock asked.

"It should. Right. I'll be right back. Sit on the couch and pull the table close enough so you can reach," John said, disappearing up the stairs. His fetish bag was resting innocuously beside the foot of his bed. With a deep breath, John shouldered it and returned downstairs, sitting next to Sherlock on the couch. He placed the bag on the floor by his feet and unzipped it.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready, John," Sherlock replied.

John's jaw clenched as he reached into the bag. He pulled out his lengths of rope first, black and red bundles stacked on top of each other. Wordlessly, he handed them to Sherlock, gauging his response the best he could.

"Do you do much with rope?" he asked, stroking two fingers down the length of red rope.

John shrugged. "Depends on my partner. I like it, but if they don't, the rope stays in the bag," he replied.

"Why do you like it?" Sherlock asked.

John whistled low through his teeth. "I like it because it can be really beautiful. And it's strong, too," he said.

"Beautiful?" Sherlock asked. "How?"

John turned to look hard at his flatmate. "Give me your arm, Sherlock. I'll show you," he murmured, resting a hand over the length of rope.

Sherlock swallowed audibly but did as John asked, rolling the sleeves of his button down up to his elbows. John unwrapped his rope and started looping it around Sherlock's' arm, tying knot after knot. Sherlock held as still as he could, watching as John's hands worked their magic, both sturdy and gentle as they tied him. A few minutes passed before John finished, leaving a rope gauntlet on his flatmate's fore arm.

"That's not for much but decoration. But I like how rope contrasts with skin. It can enhance beauty and ground a submissive," John commented, tying the last of the rope in a small bow. He watched as Sherlock moved his arm this way and that, taking time to see how well he could move.

"I see why you like it, although, I prefer the black to this," Sherlock commented, flexing his hand.

John nodded. "You're right. I bet purple would suit you, too," he said, reaching back into the bag. He dug around for a few minutes before pulling out a black ball gag.

Sherlock took it and leaned close to investigate. "It's a few years old, but not used very often. You don't care for gags very much," he murmured.

"I don't," John agreed.

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled. "I like to hear the sounds my partner makes. Sometimes it's fun to see how loud I can get them, or to count how many different noises they make. But, sometimes silence is necessary. That's normally when I use it," he said. If John looked closely, he would have noticed the faint blush on Sherlock's cheeks, but he was rooting through his bag again. "This is one of my favorites," he said, pulling out the larger of his floggers. Handing it to Sherlock, John couldn't help but smile.

Sherlock quickly set the gag down before carefully taking John's flogger in his hands. The leather was buttery, definitely high quality, and the weight of it felt very comfortable in his hands. Turning it, he spread the falls out over his thigh, doing all he could not to shiver.

"It's well balanced. Quite stingy, and definitely a good time," John commented.

"Stingy?" Sherlock asked, looking at John once more.

"Oh yes. There's a difference in the type of pain. Sting and thud. Floggers are usually somewhere in the middle," he replied.

"Oh. That makes sense," Sherlock commented.

"Um, I could show you, er, if you wanted," John offered.

Sherlock froze. John wanted to hit him, multiple times. To show him the difference in case they needed to play publicly, so he'd be prepared. Why did that excite him? "That would be acceptable. What position should I be in?" he asked.

"Just as you are. Give me your arm," John said, holding out his right hand.

Sherlock turned on the couch and placed his right arm in John's open hand.

"Relax for me, Sherlock. I'm not going to hurt you much," John murmured, rubbing small circles into his wrist. He watched as Sherlock visibly relaxed, his breath coming in steady and slow. "Okay, this is an example of stingy pain," he explained, bringing his left palm down sharply on Sherlock's exposed forearm.

Sherlock's eyes widened and snapped to the skin that John had slapped. He licked his lips and came to the conclusion that he didn't hate it. It hurt, but it wasn't intolerable. If one paid attention to the way Sherlock's breath hitched, they would even say he enjoyed it. But John wasn't paying attention.

"This is more of a thud," he commented, bringing his hand down again, fingers wrapped into a fist.

Sherlock bit his lip, attempting to hold back the small moan threatening to spill from his throat. After a shaky breath, he looked up and locked his gaze with John's. "That's very informative. Thank you, John," he said.

John smirked at him. "You liked that, didn't you?"

"I believe I did. Perhaps you should do it again just to check," Sherlock replied.

John chuckled and shoved his flatmate's arm gently. "Maybe later. Right now I still have a few things to show you. It's good to know you respond well to either though," he said, pulling the other flogger out alongside the paddle.

Sherlock passed over the second flogger to focus on the paddle. It was surprisingly heavy in his hands. The head was a rectangle with rounded edges, and Sherlock imagined that it would smart a fair amount should he ever be smacked by it. "What do you use this for?" he asked.

"Punishment spankings, mostly," John replied. "Nobody quite likes that one for fun play. Or at least, I haven't met anyone that likes it yet."

"There are two different kinds of spankings?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Oh yes. If you're ever in a BDSM relationship, you'll learn the difference very quickly," he replied.

"Explain," Sherlock demanded.

John's eyebrows knitted together. "Well, in a punishment spanking, usually the dominant is attempting to drive a message home. While some form of cuddling usually happens after, it's not meant for the submissive's pleasure. The other kind is definitely for pleasure. Some say that mixing pain and pleasure in the brain lead to the most explosive orgasms," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "I certainly hope you never have to punish me."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, shocked still by his comment. What on earth had Sherlock meant by that? Thoroughly confused, John broke his gaze to pull out the rest of his gear; his riding crop, a few silk scarves, the black leather wrist cuffs, and a pair of noise cancelling headphones. "I think these speak for themselves," John said, gesturing to the spread.

Sherlock nodded and reached first for the scarves, then the headphones. "I'm a bit confused by these," he admitted. "How are headphones fetish gear?"

John smiled softly, the corners of his mouth barely turning up. "Maybe I'll show you someday," he murmured, reaching for the rope still knotted around Sherlock's forearm. "But for now, let's get you unwrapped. Do you still want time alone with my toys?"

"Please, John. We're going back to _Leather_ tonight, aren't we?" Sherlock asked.

"If you're up to it, yes. From what Lestrade has told us, the killer is a regular, and since it's a Saturday night, it's perfect. She'll definitely be there, no doubt staking out her next victim," John replied, rubbing circles into his flatmate's skin as it appeared.

"Shall I take everything to my room?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "I still have to go to Tesco's and do the shopping. I'll be gone an hour or two. If you need anything, text me a list, but please have everything cleaned up by five," he said.

Sherlock nodded and rose from the couch once his arm was free. Gingerly, he picked up his violin and bow, and within five minutes, John had wrapped up his rope and was stepping out of their flat. Closing his eyes, Sherlock let his fingers ghost over the strings, pulling a soft melody from the instrument. John had given him quite a lot to think about, and he was going to do his best to get his Mind Palace in order for the night ahead of them. There was a killer on the loose, and he was going to find her.


	6. Staking Claims

**So sorry for the wait for this one. I'm nearing the end of my semester at school and my professors believe it's a perfectly practical thing to heap homework upon us. I'm unsure when the next part will be published, seeing as I'm posting as I finish each part. Please bear with me, and hopefully, we'll have another installment by Friday. Possibly sooner if everything lines up. As always, please let me know what you all think.**

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After arriving back from Tesco's, John was pleased to find that most of his toys were put away, and Sherlock was showered and waiting for him in his pants and a shirt. They worked together to sort through the shopping and prepare a simple dinner, eating in silence before washing up and dressing for their night out. Once again, John followed Sherlock to his room, taking great care to pick out his outfit before he disappeared up the stairs to his room to dress himself. Once he's dressed, John returned to their sitting room, picked up Sherlock's violin, and handed it to him, a silent plea for him to play.

Sherlock started with something slow and easy, the notes curled around John like his favorite blanket. They didn't look at each other while Sherlock played, they didn't have to, both involved in the music and each other. After the first piece is finished, the music shifted to a melody Sherlock wrote on the spot, pulling an appreciative hum from John. He closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips. If you asked him, John would have sworn he saw colors bursting, mostly warm oranges and earthy browns, across the backs of his lids.

It was nearly nine when Sherlock finally stopped playing; setting down his violin and taking care to balance the bow behind it. They donned shoes and jackets before John sat by the coffee table, staring at his fetish bag. "We should bring some things, just in case," he said. "Why don't you come here and help me choose?"

Sherlock nodded and sat beside him and watched as John pulled the bag closer. "I think I'd be ok with the rope, flogger, and riding crop. It we have to scene and I become uncomfortable, I can withstand those," he said.

John rearranged the toys so that those he could use were on top. "Ok. I'll bring everything though, just in case," he said, pulling out the now familiar cuffs and dogtags. "Will you wear my cuffs and tags again tonight, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John," he replied.

"Then kneel for me, just like you did last night, pet," John instructed, pushing the coffee table back with his foot.

Sherlock gracefully sank to his knees and placed his wrists in John's lap, waiting for further instructions.

"From the moment I put these on to the moment I take them off tonight, you are my responsibility. You are to do everything I ask when I ask it, and in turn, I will take care of you in every way. Do you agree to this, Sherlock?" John asked, buckling the first cuff on the detective's left wrist.

"Yes, John," he breathed, watching intently as John wrapped the second cuff around his right wrist.

"For tonight, if you need out of anything, your safeword is 'red'. I'm trusting that you won't be boneheaded and continue doing something I you don't like," John said, buckling the cuff.

"Of course, John. I trust you," Sherlock murmured.

With a smile, John placed the dogtags around Sherlock's neck. When he stood, his fingers pulled against the tags' chain, dragging Sherlock up with them. He smirked when he heard his flatmate pull air in harshly through his nose. He had been surprised when Sherlock had reacted so well to submission, and was even more surprised at how beautiful the other man was when submitting. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I'm ready for tonight," Sherlock replied, buttoning up his coat. He knew what to expect now, and he resolved to not be taken aback again. "After you, John. The game is on."

John chuckled as he led the way down the stairs. They hailed a cab and were off to _Leather_, John's hand once more resting on his flatmate's lower back. When they walked through the doors, Sherlock held his ground. Stealing a glance from the corner of his eye, John noticed that Sherlock appeared more at ease. He smiled, happy that tonight would be productive for him.

"Oh, John. Everything is so much clearer," Sherlock murmured, ducking his head against John's neck.

"I'm glad. Would you like anything to drink?" he asked.

"No thank you. I'm going to stay sober tonight," Sherlock replied, straightening up.

John nodded and guided them to the bar, ordering a pint. After he paid, he steered Sherlock to the corner of the bar and sipped at his drink. "See anything worth nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing yet. There's so many people, but I have a good feeling we'll find the killer tonight," he replied, eyes scanning the crowd slowly.

A few minutes passed before John finished his beer, taking care to set the empty glass on the counter. "Let's walk around," he said, rolling up his sleeves.

Sherlock nodded and allowed himself to be guided as John passed from one corner to the other. He nodded his head politely at Charlie and Clarissa from where they were dancing at the edge of the dance floor. His cheeks burned when Charlie winked lasciviously at them, accompanying the look with a crude hand gesture. Sherlock was pulled back to his immediate surroundings when a finger glided down his left cheekbone.

"Well, aren't you a looker," a sultry voice purred. Snapping his head forward, Sherlock all but grimaced at the sight of the woman standing before him. She was short, but the shoes she was wearing made her taller than John. Her hair was dark, her skin pale, and her eyes a pale green, all a striking contrast to her blood red lips. Sherlock frowned when her finger (square tip, painted to match her lipstick) traced across his bottom lip.

"Please don't touch him," John said, his voice calm.

The woman's attention snapped to John as she pulled her finger away from Sherlock's lips. "And who are you?" she asked, shifting her weight, arms crossing in front of her chest.

"I'm his Dom," John replied, sliding his hand from the small of Sherlock's back to wrap around his waist, tugging him against his side. "You can investigate the tags around his neck if you'd like, they've got my name on them."

The woman narrowed her eyes at John and grazed her finger down the length of Sherlock's neck, looping through John's dogtags and pulling them sharply. Sherlock whimpered quietly as he stumbled forward, his eyebrows knitted together as she studied John's dogtags first before jumping up to his eyes.

"I don't believe you," she said, fisting around the chain. "So either convince me, or let me play with him."

John was fuming, and for a split second, he scared Sherlock. "That's up to my sub. He's not been played with in public yet, and I refuse to make him uncomfortable," he said. "Now, please, release your hold on him."

The woman chuckled and did as John asked, smoothing across the metal tags where they rested against Sherlock's chest. He shivered and leaned closer to John, burying his face in his neck.

"Yes, John. Please, just make her go away," he murmured into John's skin. He nuzzled in further when John's hand slid up his back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades.

"Any limits off the bat, pet?" he asked, pulling back to look at his flatmate's eyes.

Sherlock shook his head. "I trust you, John," he said.

John smiled and ran his hand up Sherlock's neck to fist gently in his hair. "Oh, pet. I'm going to pull such pretty noises from you," he murmured, his voice husky and low. His flatmate shivered at the change and melted when John gently guided his head down to brush his lips against Sherlock's.

"Well isn't that sweet," the woman drawled, clicking her nails together. "I think I just got a cavity."

John ignored her, focusing on guiding Sherlock up to the public play area. His mind was buzzing with everything he wanted to do to his flatmate, and he found himself struggling to focus. John knew he had to make this a good experience for Sherlock and make a statement at the same time. He wasn't ignorant of all the eyes lingering on his flatmate, and he hoped that a public scene would get everyone to ignore them so they could do their job and wrap up the case.

A crowd gathered almost immediately, and John could sense Sherlock's skittishness. He set down his fetish bag and turned to his flatmate. "Still ok to use the flogger and crop on you?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded and looked around. "I'll be fine, John. I'll focus on deducing the audience," he replied, composing his face into the mask he usually reserved for dealing with Mycroft.

"Kneel for me while I get set up, pet," he said, looking around the room for supplemental equipment. He smiled fondly when he saw the spreader bar hanging a small ways across the room the ceiling, and immediately looked for a step stool. He found one leaning against the wall by the door. Crossing the room, he grabbed it, pausing half way back to snag a small table he could use for his toys. When he stopped underneath the spreader bar, he turned around to look at his flatmate.

Sherlock was kneeling, his eyes flicking from person to person, chest rising unevenly as he tried to steady his breath. John caught his attention, pointed once to the bag, and beckoned him with his finger. "Come here, pet," he said, just loud enough for his order to reach Sherlock.

The detective gracefully rose to his feet and grabbed the bag before striding towards John. He seemed so confident, it made something in John's chest ache with the knowledge that this beautiful creature was soon going to be squirming and writhing under his touch.

"I'm going to tie your hands to the spreader bar and warm you up with the flogger," John explained, pulling out the things he needed from his bag. He set the flogger and riding crop down on the small side table, before pulling out the rope and tossing the bag down. Setting up the step stool, he climbed up and looped his rope from one side to the other, making sure both ends hung evenly down.

"Ok, John," Sherlock said, watching the doctor's movements with wide eyes. He seemed almost entranced as John worked. His eyes widened as John stepped in front of him, his hands sliding up the buttons of his shirt. His eyes locked with Sherlock's as he undid the first button, fingers ghosting over porcelain skin.

Button after button popped free, and Sherlock's shirt was soon taken from him, plucked off by John's steady hands. Slowly, John worked, taking great care to kiss the inside of each wrist before tying each hand above Sherlock's head. He made sure the black rope was just tight enough to ensure Sherlock couldn't escape, but gave enough so that he could move if he wanted to. John placed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck as he tied the leftover ropes together in a simple knot.

You're so beautiful like this, pet. Look at all of those people watching you," John growled in his flatmate's ear, hands wrapping around his chest. He could feel Sherlock's body heat up under his hands, his heart beating an erratic tattoo against his ribcage. "They can watch you all they want to, but they can't touch what's _mine_," he growled.

Sherlock melted at his words, head arcing back to rest against John's shoulder. "John," he murmured, voice strained. "Please."

"Soon, pet. You're going to make such pretty noises for me, I can feel it," John murmured, turning his head to press a sweet kiss to the side of Sherlock's head. "Lift up. I'm going to start with the flogger."

He stepped back away from his flatmate and picked up the larger of the two floggers, testing the weight in his hand. He'd used it with a few of his past partners, but never on anyone as important and valuable as Sherlock. He flicked it lightly against Sherlock's left shoulder blade, smirking as a gasp tumbled from his flatmate's throat.

"How's that?" he asked, flicking it slightly harder against the other shoulder blade.

Sherlock hummed. "It's good, John. I can take more," he replied, spreading his legs to steady himself.

"That's my good boy. I'm so proud of you for doing this for me. I know it's your first public scene," John commented, directing the last bit more towards the audience. He flicked the flogger a few times, the falls painting a zigzag across Sherlock's back. He smirked as they murmured, broken words and phrases reaching his ears. "They're going to love you just as much as I do. I want you to watch them, pet. Watch them watch you squirm."

John started the scene slowly, making sure that Sherlock was warmed up properly before increasing the strength behind his lashes. The first strong one bit at the skin of Sherlock's lower back and pulled a broken moan from between his bitten lips. John's cock twitched as the sound washed over him. "You make such delicious sounds, pet," he said, stepping close behind Sherlock, pressing his clothed chest to his flatmate's naked back. John's hands bracketed Sherlock's bony hips as his lips kissed and nipped at Sherlock's neck. "I'm going to make you dance for me, pet. Would you like that?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock moaned, arching his neck to allow his partner more space to suck marks.

"So eager for me," John growled, pausing to bite at the juncture where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder. He chuckled against the skin before pulling back, striking the detective between the shoulder blades with a downwards arc of his arm.

Out of the corner of his eye, John caught the gaze of the woman from earlier. She smirked and blew him a kiss. John narrowed his gaze at her and brought the next lash down hard, a diagonal pink line raising up a moment later, connecting Sherlock's right shoulder with his left hip. John continued, the falls raining over Sherlock's back, tinting pale skin a rosy pink. All sorts of noises were falling from between Sherlock's lips; husky groans, breathless sighs, and whimpers as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Smirking, John put the flogger down, running his hands over the marks he'd made. "I'm going to use the crop on you now, pet," he said, wrapping his fingers around the handle. "Give me a color, green for go, red for stop."

"Green, Sir. Definitely green," Sherlock replied, his voice an octave deeper than normal.

"That's my good boy," John said, tapping the crop gently against the left side of his flatmate's ribcage. "You take it so well. Such a slut for pain, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, squirming as the first real hit connected on the skin just above his arse.

John placed the second blow just above the first one; striking hard enough he heard the air whistle as the leather sliced through it. Sherlock was moaning obscenely, his body going lax in the rope bondage. Pausing, John circled around to look at his partner. "You okay?" he whispered.

"Please, John. Don't stop," Sherlock begged, his breathing ragged.

Taking a step back, John looked him over. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over, his teeth biting at his lower lip. His chest was flushed with what John assumed was arousal. His assumption was confirmed when his eyes rested on the top of Sherlock's trousers, gaze settling on a rather impressive erection tenting the fabric. John stepped in again and stood on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead before resuming his place behind the detective.

Sherlock moaned as he dropped into subspace, relishing in the way time seemed to slow and everything became hazy. Blinking widely, Sherlock tried to take in the face of everyone watching him. The woman from before looked impressed and surprised, her cheeks slightly colored. Turning his head, he saw Charlie sitting down in one of the leather couches, Clarissa perched on his lap. He feels somewhat uncomfortable under their probing gaze, but his thoughts are silenced with a burning strike of John's crop. Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows himself to fall deeper into the warm, hazy feeling. He's got everything he needed from tonight stored up in his mind palace waiting to be reviewed when he gets home. For now, he can focus on John's ministrations.

John increased the frequency of his lashes, his cock twitching at every sound torn from Sherlock's throat. His flatmate's back colored very quickly, lines of red crisscrossing the lines of pink from the flogger. John was proud of both the way Sherlock was acting, and the fact that only he could make the detective's mind so quiet. A few well-placed hits to the side of Sherlock's ribcage had Sherlock calling out for John, his name chanted over and over like a mantra.

"Yes, pet?" he asked, reaching forward to tangle his fingers in the chain of his dogtags, pulling the heated metal back against Sherlock's equally heated skin.

"I'm so close, Sir. Please, let me cum?" Sherlock asked, squirming under his brief touch.

John chuckled and tugged harder. "My good boy wants to cum, does he? Wants to show everyone here how much you like this, like my touch and my pain?" he murmured, wrapping his other hand around Sherlock's waist to hold him close.

Sherlock nodded frantically, a needy whine vibrating from his throat.

"Ok then, pet. If you can cum from my crop alone, I'll let you," John said, releasing his flatmate to grab his crop for the last time. "You'll get ten lashes, all harder than what you've had so far. If you don't cum by the time I'm finished, then you've lost your chance for the night."

The first hit came before Sherlock could say anything, his head falling against his chest as the leather cracked against his skin. He was still and panting through the third hit, and by the sixth one, his voice was cracking and broken. It was on hit nine that he finally came, body tensing as his cock jerked, spurt after spurt of cum coating the inside of his trousers. Blood rushed through his ears, temporarily deafening him to the sounds around him, to the pornographic moans tumbling from his bitten lips. Ten whistled down and forced another half-hearted jerk from his spent member. Soon, there's movement around him, and John's touching his wrists, pulling and prodding at the rope holding him in place…

As soon as he's landed the final strike, John bends and hastily shoves the riding crop and the flogger into his fetish bag. He unwraps Sherlock's arms one at a time and pulls the detective into his arms. He's still boneless and pliable, and John cannot deny that he loves Sherlock this way. He murmurs nonsense into his flatmate's ear, pressing gentle kisses along the sweaty skin of his neck between phrases.

It takes a few minutes for Sherlock to come back up enough so John can finish untying his rope from the spreader bar. Gently, he eased Sherlock out of his embrace and climbed back up on the stepstool, working the rope free before coiling it up and tossing it into the bag. "Ready to go home?" he asked, raising a hand to cradle Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, John. Take me home," Sherlock murmured, leaning into John's touch.

With a smile, John hooks a finger around the dogtags around Sherlock's neck and uses them as a makeshift lead, pulling him towards the front door. Back by the main dance floor, he's stopped again by the brunette woman from earlier.

"Bravo, John," she purrs, applauding quietly. "I've never seen someone float like him before. You must know his body very well."

"I know it better than anyone," John replied, his chest puffing out ever so slightly. He wasn't lying, really. Being Sherlock's doctor allowed him a very close relationship with the detective's body, even if it's not the type of relationship everyone else thought.

The woman raised her eyebrows, arms crossing in front of her again. "You're quite sure of that, are you?" she asked.

"Very sure," John replied. "Now, if you'll please excuse me, we need to go home." Without another word to the woman, John stepped forward and led Sherlock out to the street, hailing a cab when he saw one. They rode home pressed together from knee to shoulder, Sherlock nuzzling into John's neck. John rubbed up and down Sherlock's left arm, murmuring praises into his hair. He smiled as Sherlock hummed happily beside him, relishing in the afterglow of subspace and orgasm.

When they arrived at Baker Street, John pays the cabbie and guides Sherlock up the stairs, once more pulling him by the dogtags. He shut and locked the door behind them before crossing the room to sit in his chair. "Come kneel for me, pet," he said, voice soft and gentle.

Sherlock stumbled towards him, sinking to his knees before John's chair. Shakily, he placed his arms in John's lap, his head following to rest on John's good knee.

John worked the cuffs from Sherlock's wrist, kissing the skin like he had the night before. "God, Sherlock, you were so beautiful tonight," he murmured.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock asked, turning his head up to look at John.

"Oh God, yes. You were so gorgeous. So _good_ for me," he confirmed.

Sherlock hummed softly.

"Now, why don't you go and have a bath while I put the kettle on? We'll have some tea and a few biscuits before bed," John asked, petting Sherlock's head.

Sherlock nuzzled his leg, but remained kneeling by John's feet.

"Sherlock?" John asked, touching his flatmate's shoulder. Gently, John tipped Sherlock's chin up and gazed down into hazy eyes. John's eyes widened when he realized Sherlock hadn't come all the way back up from subspace yet.

"Come on, pet," he ordered, tugging up on the dogtags. "It's time for a bath, then bed," he said, rising to walk down the hallway to the bathroom.


	7. Aftercare

**Goodness, I feel like I'm on a roll again. I know this chapter is a bit short when compared with the others, especially those published recently, but it felt like a good place to stop, and I didn't want to have one giant installment. I hope you enjoy the seventh chapter of 'A Study in Leather'. As always, please leave me some feedback, through a comment or review. Cheers**

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John worked quickly, hands manipulating the bath's tap so that warm fills the basin. "Sit on the toilet seat for me while I grab some things, ok, Sherlock?" John asked, his hand tilting the detective's chin up to see his face.

Sherlock nodded and leaned heavily against the sink basin, turning his head to watch the bathtub fill.

John hurriedly made his rounds around the flat, grabbing a bottle of bubble bath from his room, turned on the kettle, and snagged a few fresh towels and Sherlock's dressing gown from the clean laundry basket before returning to the bathroom. The dressing gown is hung on the hook on the back of the door, and the towel is spread out on their small towel heater. John flicked open the bottle of bubble bath and squeezed a liberal amount into the running tap. Sandalwood and pine fills the bathroom and John feels his body relax. He hoped Sherlock found the scent relaxing too.

"Can you undress and get into the bathtub?" John asked, shaking Sherlock's shoulder. He got no response from the detective. With a sigh, John reached for the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers, carefully undoing them and shucking them off alongside his socks and pants. John averted his eyes and guided his flatmate into the bath, only surveying him once he knew there were enough bubbles to cover everything.

One by one, John catalogued the welts, still angry and red across Sherlock's back. The detective whimpered when the hot water hit the first raised welt, and for a moment, John was worried he had gone too far. One look at Sherlock's face calmed those fears; how could he have taken things too far when Sherlock had so obviously enjoyed it. Closing his eyes, John remembered each whimper and plea Sherlock had uttered, remembered how his flatmate had squirmed and danced under his touch, remembered how he had asked for more and achieved orgasm just from the riding crop… It was impressive, and John couldn't deny that he was impressed and very aroused.

Shaking his head, John attempted to dislodge those thoughts. Right now, he couldn't think about his very hard, very interested cock throbbing in his jeans. He had to focus on Sherlock and insure that he came up from subspace safely. John picked up a flannel from their linen closet and dunked it in the water. "I'm going to help you wash, ok, pet?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked owlishly at him, eyes losing some of their glaze. "John? What's happening?" he asked, his voice rough from overuse.

"You're coming up from subspace, Sherlock," John explained, reaching for the detective's body wash.

"Not that one," Sherlock said, reaching forward to wrap one shaky hand around John's soap. "I want to smell like you. It'll help, I think."

Obligingly, John set the bottle down and lathered up the flannel with his soap. He started at Sherlock's shoulders, gliding back and forth, his touch feather-light on the raised skin. He frowned as Sherlock hissed, the muscles in his neck tensing in pain. "I know, pet. But clean skin means you'll heal faster," John said, digging his fingers in on either side of his flatmate's neck. Little by little, Sherlock relaxed and leaned forward, allowing John room to work freely.

Once Sherlock's back was clean, John moved to his arms, starting first with the left one. He soaped over the limb once, rinsed it, and lathered his hands. Starting at Sherlock's wrist, John rubbed small circles into his skin, easing any tension he felt. Once he finished with Sherlock's left arm, John rinsed it again and repeated his ministrations on the left arm, kissing the inside of his wrist when he was done.

"Time for your legs now. Prop one up on the side of the tub for me, Sherlock," John instructed. One at a time, John repeated the routine with Sherlock's legs, only washing up to the middle of his flatmate's thighs. "Think you can get the rest? Then we can wash your hair in the sink if you'd like," John asks, turning his face to look at the sink, a futile effort to hide the blush streaking across his cheeks.

Sherlock nodded, and took the flannel from John's hand, their fingers brushing against each other briefly.

"Ok then, I'm going to go make a cuppa. Would you like one?" he asked as he stood.

"No thank you," Sherlock murmured, working the soap against the flannel.

John nodded his head once before beating a hasty retreat. Once in the kitchen, he placed a teabag in his favorite mug and covered it with hot water, leaving it on the counter to steep. Heading to the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of water and set it by his tea mug. Even if Sherlock didn't want tea, he was going to drink something before he went to bed.

While his tea finished steeping, John bustled around to get set up for after Sherlock's bath. He rooted through his flatmate's dresser, pulling out pants, sleeping trousers, and a soft t-shirt, laying them on the chair by the windowsill. Next, he laid out a clean towel on the bed before trekking up the stairs to retrieve his arnica cream. When he returned downstairs, John carefully set the tub on Sherlock's bedside table before circling back to the kitchen to finish off making his tea. He took a few sips before Sherlock called out from him, and with a smile, he returned to tend to his flatmate.

"All done washing?" he asked, hovering in the doorway.

"Yes. I even managed to wash my hair," Sherlock replied, turning to look over John.

John crossed the room and pulled the plug, staring as the water swirled down the drain. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock," he murmured. "Let's get your back taken care of, then it's bedtime."

Sherlock followed John silently to his room, pulling on his pants and sleeping trousers as soon as he could. Once he was half dressed, he laid out on the towel John had placed earlier, melting into the mattress.

"Is this okay?" John asked, straddling Sherlock's slim hips, the tub of arnica cream in his hand.

"Of course, John. Anything you need," Sherlock replied, his voice soft.

John swallowed thickly as he unscrewed the tub's lid. He scooped some of the cream out and rubbed it between his hands, warming it slightly before lightly rubbing it into the welts on Sherlock's back. John worked slowly, his touch light once more as he worked the cream into his flatmate's abused flesh. He frowned when he could feel the heat radiating from some of the worst ones.

"How does it feel?" he asked, pausing to scoop some more cream out.

"Feels good, John. I feel more grounded than before," Sherlock replied, arching back into John's touch.

John kept rubbing the cream into Sherlock's skin, his hands lingering on his flatmate's back well after every inch of colored skin was treated. He knew he should withdraw his touch, wipe his hands off, and head off to bed, but his chest ached uncomfortably at the thought of leaving Sherlock alone.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to the side to catch John's gaze.

"Yes?" John asked.

"Will you stay with me tonight? Please?" he asked.

John froze mid back-rub and stared at Sherlock, focusing on his eyes. Three times he's been asked to spend the night with his flatmate, and twice he's refused. John's chest clenched at the look on Sherlock's face, the detective's bottom lip pouting out ever so slightly.

"Please, John. I want you here. And you obviously don't want to go," Sherlock said.

"Okay," John agreed, resting his hands on the small of Sherlock's back. "But there will be rules."

"That's fine," Sherlock murmured. "Anything to keep you with me."

John's heart stuttered at Sherlock's words. No matter how he tried to deny it, things had changed between them, and if John didn't admit that it absolutely terrified him, he'd be lying. "Clothes stay on, no sex, and you drink a bottle of water before we sleep. That's it," John said, pulling away from Sherlock's warm body. He wiped the excess cream off his hands and slipped out to change into his pajamas and grab the water for Sherlock.

A few moments later, Sherlock was knocking at John's door, shyly opening it a crack and peering in. "John, can we sleep here tonight?" he asked, only coming in when John told him to.

"Sure," he called from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "Drink your water and get in bed. I'll be there in a minute."

A few minutes later, John crawled into bed beside his flatmate, smiling softly when Sherlock turned to face him, their knees bumping together underneath the covers. "Everything okay?" Sherlock asked, fixing his clear, quicksilver eyes on John.

"Yeah. It's all fine. Now go to sleep, Sherlock," John murmured, smiling softly at Sherlock. He stretched out on his back, arms by his side, and closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when he felt one of Sherlock's hands tentatively stroking over the scar marring his left shoulder.

"Does it hurt when I touch you?" Sherlock whispered, tracing the puckered trails of scar tissue, no doubt mapping the twisting pink roads.

"No," John replied, his voice gentle. He heard Sherlock shift beside him, the sheets rustling around his form as he moved. A few seconds later, John felt something soft and wet tickle across his chest and a warm body press against his side. He couldn't help the smile that curved the ends of his lips when he realized that Sherlock was a cuddler. With a soft chuckle, he turned his head to press a kiss against his flatmate's mop of curls, pulling a content hum from the other man.

They drifted off that way, falling into dreamland one after another. For the first time in what felt like weeks, John didn't dream of Afghanistan or the pool encounter with Moriarty, he didn't dream of oppressive heat, gunshots, or soldiers bleeding out, and he definitely didn't dream of finding his flatmate dead with a dirty syringe buried in his arm. Instead, John dreamt of Sherlock and slept peacefully through the night.


	8. Crime and Punishment

**Holy cow. We're already at chapter eight. I can't believe I've gotten here so fast. Regardless, here's the next installment. I hope you all enjoy. As always, leave me feedback through a comment or review. Also, if you have a prompt you'd like filled, feel free to drop it in my PM and I'll see what I can do. Cheers.**

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When John woke up the next day, Sherlock was gone, his side of the bed stone cold, almost as if he'd never been there in the first place. John sighed and went about getting ready for the day, frowning when he realized that Sherlock wasn't even in the flat. Checking his phone, his frown deepened when no messages were unread in his inbox. Searching the flat, John came up with no notes explaining Sherlock's absence. By the time noon rolled around, John was officially worried, and fired off a text to the missing detective. He received no reply.

Around dinner time, his phone pings with a half-hazard "he's fine, don't fret," message from Mycroft. It's barely enough to keep his rage from boiling over. John chose to go to bed early, tossing and turning, stifled with the sheets that still smell faintly of Sherlock. When he woke the next morning, John's mood was worse. He begrudgingly trudged his way into the clinic to catch up on his paperwork.

Two mornings after their last visit to _Leather_, John gets a call from Lestrade, summoning him to a crime scene. With a very large, very hot travel mug of coffee, his favorite cream cabled jumper, and his Browning tucked into the waistband of his jeans, John trekked across London as requested.

Donovan and Anderson parted away from Lestrade as soon as they saw him. It was one of the only times they made the smart choice, John mused as he greeted the Detective Inspector. He's briefed on the victim, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, murdered just like the other three. When he was given clearance, John made his way inside, his bad leg acting up from the stress.

John froze when he saw Sherlock bent over the body, his magnifying glass cradled between long, pale fingers. John's fingers twitched for his gun when those grey-green-blue eyes met his. John took a large swallow of his coffee before looking closer at the body. He smirked when he saw Sherlock shift awkwardly on his knees, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

The two men danced around each other, neither saying anything directly to each other. John didn't have to speak for Sherlock to know he was furious, he knew the detective could read it off of his every action and facial expression. John watched as Sherlock flitted away from the corpse, only pausing to relay his deductions to Lestrade. He watched as Sally smirked and opened her mouth, no doubt saying something offensive, and then John saw red as Sherlock exploded.

He marched across the crime scene and grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck, pulling him sharply away from the scene. "I'll call you later, Lestrade," he said, sidestepping one of Sherlock's arms as it flailed towards him.

"Going to punish your little boyfriend, John?" Anderson called after them.

John dropped his hold on Sherlock and approached Anderson, his face deceptively calm, the corner of his mouth barely turned up. "I believe," he murmured, his voice eerily even, "that what I do with Sherlock, is none of your business, Anderson."

Anderson paled comically, Donovan looked impressed, and Lestrade looked shocked, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. He caught John's gaze and held it for a moment, a silent understanding passing between the two of them. Lestrade nodded once and turned his back, allowing John time alone with his team.

"He's a bit out of control though, isn't he?" Donovan asked, gesturing over to where Sherlock was standing still, watching them with wide eyes.

John's fingers twitched at his side, itching to wrap around the handle of his gun. He took a deep breath and turned to stare at Donovan, his gaze intense.

"I'd be out of control, too, if I had to deal with your endless commentary every time I tried to do my job, Donovan," John remarked.

Donovan took a step back and looked as if John had slapped her.

John narrowed his eyes at the pair of them and twisted his lips up in a ghost of a smile. "Now, if you'll both excuse me, I believe that Sherlock owes me quite the explanation as to why he disappeared for _two days_ without a trace," he said, directing the second bit over his shoulder towards the detective. John stalked off without another word, wrapping his left hand tightly around Sherlock's right bicep as he caught up to him. John dragged Sherlock through the streets of London, walking the few miles back to Baker Street. When they returned to their flat, John shoved Sherlock unceremoniously inside, pushing him towards the couch as he pulls his gun from his waistband, setting it on the kitchen table.

The two men stared at each other for a few minutes, Sherlock looking guilty. A flush burned across Sherlock's cheeks, and the taller man looked away, focusing on the yellow spray paint marring the black damask wallpaper. "John, I-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John interrupted. He sat down in his chair and bent over to untie his shoes. John knew he needed a moment so that he didn't strike his flatmate in anger. Never before had he been so angry with a submissive. John leaned back in his chair once his shoes were off and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply and counting to ten before releasing his breath. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to notice that Sherlock looked sheepish. "I believe," John murmured, "that we need to have a serious talk, Sherlock.

The detective nodded, not daring to speak before it was asked of him.

"Why did you disappear without telling me where you went?" John asked, crossing his arms against his chest. The two men stared at each other for a few moments before John realized that Sherlock was waiting for permission to answer. "You may speak," he said.

"I needed to think… without you around, John," Sherlock replied.

John frowned. "I would have given you space if you asked for it, Sherlock. But instead, you left for god knows where, and I was left here to worry about you."

"I'm sorry, John. Everything was just so overwhelming. I didn't know what to do, so I left," Sherlock said.

"What was so overwhelming?" John prodded.

Sherlock paled and looked away, staring at their coats hanging side by side beside the door.

"I expect an answer," John demanded. Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression pulling on John's heartstrings. The other man looked hopeless, and John decided then and there that he never wanted to see that look on Sherlock's face ever again.

"It's you, John," Sherlock whispered, dropping his gaze again. "You've surprised me, John, with this case."

"How so?" John asked.

"With everything. With your dominance, with your sexuality, with your knowledge and skill… John, you've done the impossible and made my mind quiet. Multiple times. Last night, it shut off completely. For me, it was both the most terrifying and amazing thing to experience, and when I woke this morning, I did not know how to deal with it," Sherlock said.

John was stunned into silence. He stared at Sherlock, his mouth gaping open. "And now?" he asked after a moment.

Sherlock flushed hotly. "And now, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to function without you to ground me ever again."

John swallowed and nodded, mulling his flatmate's words around in his mind. He didn't know when it happened, but somewhere between the beginning of the case and now, Sherlock had managed to worm his way into John's being. Never before had he been so enraptured with a partner and, truth be told, he was scared of what it meant. "I have a proposition," he said, resting his forearms across his knees.

Sherlock nodded, urging John to continue.

"For the remainder of this case, I will act as your dominant at all times. We will have rules, and you will obey them, or face the consequences. Once the case is solved, we can either extend the arrangement, change it to better fit us, or terminate it. Is that agreeable?" John said.

"Yes, John. That sounds...perfect," Sherlock agreed, leaning forward to mimic John's posture. He startled when John shot up from his chair, crossing the room to sink down in the empty spot beside Sherlock.

John pulls Sherlock to him and stretched out on the couch as best as he could. They stayed like that for an hour, discussing various limits and rules. In the end, they decided on a simple list: no leaving the flat without either telling the other first or leaving a note; experiments are only to take up half of the kitchen table and if they require refrigeration, are confined to the crisper drawer; no antagonizing Donovan or Anderson; and above all else, speak up if something is wrong.

Once everything was settled, John sat them up and pulled away from Sherlock. "You acted like a spoilt three year old at the crime scene today," he commented.

Sherlock paled and hung his head. "I know. I'm sorry, John," he replied.

"I think, this has earned a punishment, don't you, pet?" John asked, tilting Sherlock's chin up so he could look into his flatmate's ever-changing eyes.

Sherlock tensed, but nodded all the same. "And then I'll be forgiven?" Sherlock asked.

"By me, yes. By Anderson and Donovan, well, only time will tell," John replied.

Sherlock nodded. "So what's the verdict?"

John considered it for a moment before speaking. "Clothespegs and a spanking with the paddle. Come upstairs with me."

Together, the two climbed up the stairs, John having to pull Sherlock along a few times. When the door shut behind them, John carefully began removing Sherlock's clothes, easing buttons open and sliding each article of cloth off his partner's body. He folded everything and set Sherlock's clothes on his side table before fishing around for his bag of laundry things.

"Bend over the end of the bed for me, pet, arms at your sides. You'll get twenty clothes pegs and twenty paddles. You're to count each peg as it goes on, every swat from the paddle, and then the pegs again as they come off. Do you understand?" John instructed.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock breathed, his shoulders tensing.

John stroked a hand between his shoulder blades and started in on the punishment. Over and over, he pinched the skin of Sherlock's back, sides, arms, and legs before working the clothespegs on. As instructed, Sherlock counted each one, whimpering and squirming between each addition. When all twenty clothespegs decorated Sherlock's body, John retrieved his paddle.

"How are you doing, pet?" he asked, rubbing his right hand over the unmarked flesh of Sherlock's arse.

"It hurts, John," Sherlock replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"It's supposed to," John replied, rubbing his free hand over Sherlock's arse, steading him. "Now hold still, if you move, I'll miss and you'll hurt even more."

The first hit was rather mild, if you'd asked John. Sherlock, who counted out a breathless "one," would disagree. John worked as quickly as he could and paused just long enough between swats. He smiled as Sherlock counted, and rubbed his back when the detective's voice broke. After twenty, Sherlock's back glistened with a film of sweat, and John found it exceedingly difficult to refrain from bending over and licking it from the small of Sherlock's back…

John shook his head and put his paddle away before reaching for his bag of clothespins. "You've done so well, Sherlock. It's almost done," he murmured. One by one, John plucked the pieces of wood from Sherlock's body. He didn't like the way Sherlock seemed on the verge of tears, but he knew that punishment was necessary. He also knew that he could reward Sherlock for good behavior later.

After all the clothespins were back inside their bag, John eased Sherlock up and helped him get dressed. "You did so well for me, Sherlock. So well. I'm so proud. There's just one bit left, pet, and then all will be forgiven," John murmured, stroking through Sherlock's curls. He felt the detective tense in his arms, but he was relieved that he didn't pull away. "Now let's get you cleaned up and head back to Scotland Yard so you can apologize."

Sherlock followed him into the bathroom and straightened up while John passed a cool flannel over his face and the back of his neck. When John was convinced that Sherlock looked normal again, he set the flannel down and leaned into the shower, pulling out his bar of soap. "Sit on the toilet stool, pet," he said, gesturing for Sherlock to sit.

Sherlock did as he was told, watching quietly as John fumbled through their under-sink cupboard for something. He frowned when John stood up a moment later, a triumphant look on his face, holding one of his straight razors.

"We have to do something about that harsh mouth of yours, Sherlock," John said, holding the soap over the sink, the straight razor gliding over the top. Open your mouth, Sherlock," John ordered, abandoning his bar of soap for a good sized soap shard. Certainly John wouldn't do that, would he?

It seemed, Sherlock found out a moment later, that he _would_. John had placed the soap shard on his tongue and instructed him to close his mouth with the soap still inside. The soap, while it smelled lovely on John, tasted absolutely repulsive. He gagged around his mouthful, but did not spit it out. He'd already endured one punishment spanking tonight, and he was not keen on making it two.

"I hope that you will remember this next time you smart off to Donovan," John said, bending to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Silently, he led Sherlock to the door, helped him put on his shoes and coat, and hailed them a cab. It seemed John was serious about apologizing, a feat Sherlock wasn't quite sure he was even capable of.

Half an hour later, Sherlock followed as John marched through the doors. The soap had dissolved about twenty minutes ago, but try as he might, he could not get the taste to leave his mouth. He swallowed thickly as John knocked on the door to Lestrade's office and felt his cheeks burn when he walked in to see Donovan and Anderson waiting for him. They were seated casually on twin chairs in front of Lestrade's desk, and Sherlock felt uncomfortable with four pairs of eyes staring at him. He turned and stared at John, hoping his expression would convey everything he was thinking.

"I believe Sherlock has something to say, don't you, Sherlock?" John asked, anchoring his hand on his flatmate's lower back. Sherlock seemed to sink into his touch, and John couldn't help but smile softly. He knew he'd probably be on the receiving end of countless looks and comments, especially from Lestrade, for the foreseeable future, but in the end, it was worth it; _Sherlock_ was worth it.

"It has come to my attention," he started, turning to look at Lestrade, "that I have acted in a less than appropriate manner. I apologize for my misconduct and will attempt to hold my tongue in future instances."

The room was quiet, both Donovan and Anderson staring open mouthed at Sherlock. Lestrade chuckled quietly and stood up from his seat, crossing to approach Sherlock and John.

"Thank you for your apology, Sherlock. That was quite big of you," Lestrade said, offering his hand to the detective.

Sherlock took the offered hand with a small smile, shaking it firmly before dropping it. "You should really thank John. He was the one who pointed out my wrongdoings," he said.

"Good on you for keeping him in line, John," Lestrade commented, patting the doctor on the shoulder.

John smiled uncomfortably and took a step back. "Yes, well, he needs it sometimes," he said, shifting his weight to his left foot. "Now, please excuse us, but it's time for us to go home. Neither of us have had a decent meal in a while, and I'm knackered."

Sherlock followed John back to Baker Street, smiling at the doctor when he was settled into his favorite chair. "John?" he asked.

"Yes Sherlock?" John said, rubbing his tired face.

Sherlock crossed the floor and crouched in front of John's chair, leaning up to take the doctor's face in his hands. "Thank you for setting me straight."

John chuckled and bent down, kissing Sherlock's forehead. "I may be wrong, but I don't quite think you're _straight_, Sherlock," he murmured, a smile spread across his lips.

Sherlock laughed softly, his chest rumbling pleasantly. "I don't think I ever was," he commented, his eyebrows furrowing together for a moment.

"Regardless," John said, pausing to press another kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I'm so very proud of you. You took your punishment so well. You've been such a good boy for me, pet, and good boys get rewards."

"Rewards?" Sherlock asked. "What kind?"

"Oh yes," John murmured. "Ask and I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, no doubt working through a list of things he wanted. After a moment of comfortable silence, he licked his lips and looked up at John. "I think I'd like a kiss from you. A proper one."

Sherlock wasn't prepared for John to haul him half way into his lap and press his lips against his own, nor was he prepared for the gentle hand that tangled into his hair to position his mouth just right. However, it was the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest that Sherlock was the least prepared for. He realized, between the press and slide of John's lips and tongue, that submission was not a weakness like he had originally thought; it was something beautiful, and he couldn't help but want more.


	9. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Holy Hiatus. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get the next installment up. It's finals week at my college, so I'm scrambling to get through all my papers and exams with high marks. The next installment will likely not be uploaded before I'm finished with my semester, (4 days from now), but should be up within a week. As always, please let me know what you think through a comment or a review.**

**To all who have been kind enough to leave reviews: Thank you. I'm so thrilled to know that you're all enjoying reading this, especially as I'm enjoying writing it! I hope you like this chapter! Cheers.**

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It would be a week before Sherlock and John could return to _Leather_. In the meantime, Sherlock had completely taken over their sitting room with various experiments and evidence to their case. Pictures of the victims were plastered over their far wall, the black damask hidden behind butchered bodies, blackened brand marks, and basic sketches of what John assumed was the killer. Sherlock had pinpointed her age and height, but nothing else added up.

"Her hair color changes, John. It's hard to pinpoint her DNA because the hair is so damaged!" Sherlock had said, curling up on the couch, turning to face the wall. He had been in what John had deemed a "black mood" for three days, and John was at a loss of what to do. It was only after Sherlock somehow managed to contaminate everything in their fridge (a few hours after John had returned home from Tesco's, arms laden with enough food to keep them fed for two weeks, mind you) that he dug out a few items from his fetish bag.

"Sherlock," he called, returning to their sitting room. "Kneel by my chair."

The detective turned his head and stared disbelievingly at his flatmate, no doubt attempting to deduce John. "I'm on a case," Sherlock huffed.

"I know. I've let you carry on for a while now, and I've had enough. So, I'm going to help you, and you are going to let me," John said, sitting in his chair. "Now come here and kneel. If I have to ask again, I'll get the paddle."

Begrudgingly, Sherlock rose from the couch and made his way to kneel beside John's chair. He pouted as John buckled the now familiar cuffs around his wrists, followed closely by John's dogtags being slipped over his head, the metal cool against his flushed skin.

"Close your eyes," John instructed, pulling a silk scarf from his lap.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his mouth falling open when John wrapped the scarf over his eyes, knotting it firmly in the back. "John, I don't see how this will help," he commented.

"You're going to tell me everything you know about the case, preferably in terms that I'll understand. You'll know when to start," John said.

The pair of noise-cancelling headphones are slipped over his ears a moment later, and Sherlock felt ridiculous. He waited a moment, taking time to collect his thoughts, and _oh,_ finally he understood. Sherlock swallowed thickly and takes a deep, steadying breath. "The killer is twenty-five," he murmured. "She's naturally blonde, but has dyed her hair no less than three times to hide her identity. She has a cat and lives in central London, alone, with a landlord that's never around."

Sherlock jerked when John rested a warm hand on his shoulder, stroking the sliver of skin that was on display. After a moment, Sherlock smiled softly and continued. "She's petite, doesn't have a lot of strength as indicated by the ragged dismemberment. Likely a victim of rape, for it's doubtless she would be killing in cold blood. She picks men that look alike and all have been picked up at _Leather_, so I'm assuming they're all dominants. It's likely that they all resemble her rapist."

Sherlock paused again, his tongue peeking out to wet his slightly-chapped lips. "What concerns me," he murmured, "is that you fit her ideal profile, John. When we go back, we need to do something to get her interested in you."

John trailed his fingers up Sherlock's neck, resting his palms on the ear pads of his headphones. He pulled them off Sherlock slowly, bending down to kiss his head. "Brilliant," he whispered, reaching for the knot of the blindfold. "You are absolutely fantastic, Sherlock. So good for me."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, his eyes re-adjusting to the light as he basked in John's praise. "How do you want to get her attention?" Sherlock asked after a moment, turning his focused gaze to lock with John's.

"Well, people seemed to flock the last time we scened. Would you be adverse into another play session?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Whatever you think is best, John. You are obviously more well-versed in places like _Leather_ than I am," he replied.

John smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching up, his eyes darkening. "Oh Sherlock, it'll be dangerous," John whispered, pulling the detective up so he could press a kiss to his neck.

"I'm counting on it," Sherlock murmured, his eyes fluttering shut again at the stimulation.

"I'm going to confuse your body, pet. Cross your wires and find your hotspots. And you're going to love it, won't you?" John said, nipping at Sherlock's earlobe.

Words failed Sherlock as his cock gave an interested lurch in his trousers. "John," he breathed, hands flying up, searching for purchase on John's back. The doctor's body was warm and hard under Sherlock's fingers, muscles rippling under his clothes and skin. He had known, obviously, that John was strong, but actually feeling those steely muscles sent Sherlock's mind reeling.

As he dragged his hands down between John's shoulder blades, Sherlock was overcome with the knowledge that, although he had about six inches in height over John, that the doctor could overpower him. Easily. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he wanted it. "Please, John," he murmured, his voice uneven.

"Please, what?" John asked, pulling back to look over his flatmate. A light bulb seemed to light over his head as he took in Sherlock's flushed cheeks and lidded eyes. When he was greeted with the sight of the detective's very interested member, he smirked.

"More," Sherlock said, attempting to pull John down on the floor with him.

John chuckled and resisted, sinking back into his chair. "No, pet. I'm going to play with you tonight, and I want you wound up for me. You'll get your relief when I'm good and ready to give it to you, understood?" he said, rubbing a thumb over the side of Sherlock's face, tracing over his cheekbone.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, but nodded all the same. "Shall I get ready to go then?"

"Yes. Take a shower, and be very… _thorough_. I might be checking before we go to dinner," John replied. He took great pride when Sherlock flushed delicately before scurrying off to the bathroom. He heard the water pipes rattle as the shower turned on and rose from his chair. He needed to pack a few special things for their night out, and he wanted to surprise his flatmate.

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, skin flushed pink and still damp from his shower, John stopped him. "I take it you're all clean for me?" he asked, stepping close to the detective, hands gripping Sherlock's slim hips.

"Yes, John," he replied, eyes darting down to stare at John's hands.

"Well you better be after a twenty minute shower," John commented, leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock's neck, nipping just over his pulsepoint. He grinned as his flatmate squirmed under his touch, grip on the towel wrapped around his hips faltering. John took a step back and let his eyes roam over Sherlock's body once more. "Come into the sitting room, it's time to put your cuffs on," he said, doubling back to his chair.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his towel and followed John. Even though he'd deny it, Sherlock loved the small ritual with John. He loved the way his hands, so steady and sure, gently wrapped the soft leather around his wrists. He loved the fact that he felt so connected to John, and the knowledge that the doctor would take care of him was overwhelming.

When John's dogtags settled just below his sternum, Sherlock basked in the feeling of belonging. Never in his life had he felt so entirely at home, so at peace. Never before had life seemed so worth living. Sherlock was dumbstruck when he realised it was all because of the reserved man sitting in a chair before him.

When the ritual with John was over, Sherlock quickly dressed and followed as John led the way from their flat. They had dinner at Angelo's, their waiter bringing out a candle, winking at Sherlock as he set it down. John ordered for the pair of them and they sat in comfortable silence, waiting for their food. John had worried that wearing the cuffs to a public, non BDSM-friendly environment would be too much for Sherlock, but the clever detective had once again surprised him.

After their brief afternoon session, Sherlock took comfort being led, even in public. He had briefly wondered if wearing his cuffs outside of their flat and _Leather_ was going to be a problem, but the pride in John's eyes as he reached across the table to stroke over the supple leather took away any negative thoughts that roamed around in Sherlock's head. Sherlock loved that John knew just how to take care of him, and how it allowed him to focus easier on finding the murderer, but most of all, he loved the soft smile that would pull at John's lips when he had done something particularly pleasing.

They made small conversation after the arrival of their food, both men smiling and laughing between bites of pasta and sips of wine. "One glass, Sherlock," John had said, ordering off the menu. "It'll be enough to loosen you up for what I have planned." Sherlock's cheeks had burned pink at John's words, his mind concocting hundreds of scenarios, all staged at _Leather_. When Sherlock stood from the table to follow John out of the restaurant, he found himself covertly attempting to readjust his pants, attempting to lessen the pressure from his swollen cock. He found, with a grimace, that thinking of Mycroft helped a great deal.

Charlie approaches them the moment they've stepped through _Leather's_ doors, Clarissa trailing beside him. "That was quite a scene you gave us the other night, Captain," he commented, offering his hand for John to shake.

"Thank you, we enjoyed ourselves, didn't we, Sherlock?" John replied, shaking the offered hand, his head turning to his flatmate.

"Very much so," Sherlock commented, smiling briefly at the memory. Sherlock knew, that even if he tried, he would never be able to delete the experience and memory from his mind palace. He shivered.

"Planning something for tonight, too?" Charlie asked, gesturing to the black duffle hauled across John's right shoulder.

"Oh yes. I'm introducing Sherlock to a few new things tonight. Might have a demonstration if enough people gather," John replied, winking. "Might need your help, actually, Charlie. All depends on when Sherlock wants his scene." John turned and looked at his flatmate, hand raising to rub at the back of his neck.

"Whenever you're ready, John. Now is as good as ever," he replied, fighting back the urge to shiver and lean into the doctor's touch.

"Eager little thing, isn't he?" Charlie huffed. "If he were mine, I'd teach him patience."

John bristled, his shoulders squaring a little more as his spine lengthened. "As it is, he's _mine_. And he's been patient since this morning, didn't even complain when I denied him."

Charlie frowned and shot Sherlock a sour look. "I see. Still, he's gagging for it, Johnny boy. Might as well indulge him, lest someone else snap him up."

"I'd like to see someone try," Sherlock said, his upper lip curling. He didn't have to look to know that John was smirking; he could feel the other man's pride radiating off him in nearly tangible waves.

Motioning for Sherlock to follow him, John walked towards the public play area, stopping to stand in front of a slightly slanted table. It's made of sturdy metal, and has a ledge at the lowest side. There are rings at each corner, raised off the table's surface by a sturdy rod. "Strip to your pants and get up there for me, pet," John ordered, setting his bag down beside his feet.

Unhurried, Sherlock stripped out of his clothing, taking care to fold each piece, depositing it with a small grimace on the ground beside John's bag. When he was down to his pants, he stepped up on the table and leaned backwards, hissing slightly when his heated flesh pressed against the cool metal.

"That's my good boy," John murmured, pulling out the rope from his bag. He made quick work of securing Sherlock in place, dropping a kiss into the detective's curls before slipping out of sight. He returned a few moments later and continued unpacking his tools of choice for the night. Frowning, Sherlock realised that he couldn't deduce why John had stepped away. Squirming against his bonds, Sherlock whined low in his throat, attracting John's attention.

"Shh," John hushed, stepping around to stroke a cold hand down Sherlock's face. "I'm right here, pet. Had to get something special for you."

Sherlock leaned into John's touch, his eyes fluttering shut. His moment of peace was short lived, however; his eyes snapping open and a gasp was ripped from his throat at the sudden trail of cold passing over his chest. Ice, his mind supplied. John is using an ice cube on you.

"How's that, pet?" John asked, trailing the ice across his sternum, allowing the water to puddle in the hollow of his throat.

Sherlock whimpered and squirmed, the icy puddles spilling down his chest, raising gooseflesh in their wake as they raced down across alabaster skin towards the waistband of his pants. "John," he breathed, wide eyes snapping to meet his partner's in disbelief.

John chuckled. "I like it when that big brain of yours shuts off, pet, when you can only focus on me," he murmured, gliding the piece of ice down across his nipples, lingering over the peaked nubs.

Sherlock moaned softly, his hips twitching in an attempt to find friction. John was making good on his promise from earlier that morning; even though they had just started their scene, he already felt that his wires were sufficiently crossed.

The ice continued to trail across Sherlock's body, leaving glistening pathways of skin behind as John moved the cube down his inner thigh, up across his neck, between his lips. Sherlock was making such beautiful, soft sounds, and John wanted more. With a smirk, he placed some ice chips every place he could find a dip or hollow on Sherlock's body, lapping at the melted water they left behind.

"As you can see, submissives can respond to more than just pain," John said, stepping to the side of the table, one hand resting on Sherlock's right thigh. "Some of them are incredibly responsive to what we call sensory play."

John stepped behind the table and took a moment to take in the small crowd of interested people flocked around the table. More than one submissive looked interested, and more than one dominant looked confused. Picking up a few more supplies, he stepped back into Sherlock's line of sight, holding up the two taper candles and a lighter.

"If you have any questions, feel free to ask," John said, lighting the candles one at a time before setting them down in a holder on the table. Grabbing another piece of ice, John continued rubbing it over Sherlock's flushed skin.

"Does he really like it?" a voice called out. John nipped at Sherlock's neck before stepping back and smirking when he met the gaze of the same woman who had previously challenged John's claim.

"Pet, why don't you answer her," he said, bending to lick a hot stripe with his tongue just behind the slide of the ice.

Sherlock answered the woman in the form of a deep moan, his back arching up, seeking more of John's touch.

"Sensation play can be incredibly effective, especially for those who are so in tune with their senses to begin with," John continued.

"What does that mean?" Charlie asked, stepping to the front of the group.

"Well," John said, placing the last piece of ice in Sherlock's mouth, "My partner here relies very heavily on his senses every day for his work. He's constantly thinking about what he's smelling, or how something feels against his skin. Sherlock responds well to sensation play because it anchors him in something vaguely familiar, even if he's not used to what I'm doing."

John stepped away and retrieved one of his candles from the holder, the wax just starting to drip down the side. Tilting it to it's side, John allowed a bead of the wax to fall on the inside of his right wrist, biting his lip as it burned briefly. "When using things like hot wax, always check the temperature on the inside of your wrist before pouring it on your partner," he said, turning to address his audience. "Sometimes, the wax gets too hot, and having second or third degree burns end your session prematurely isn't fun."

Turning back to Sherlock, he held the candle over his arm, tilting it ever so slightly. "Ready, pet?" he asked.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, squirming against his bonds.

John chuckled and tipped the candle further, a few drops of plum colored wax falling against Sherlock's skin. John smirked as Sherlock's eyes darkened. His partner was enjoying this, and John enjoyed making Sherlock squirm. It was delicious to see the detective all spread out and waiting for him. It was more delicious to see his skin littered with splotches of purple.

When the purple candle had run out of liquid wax, John exchanged it for his blue one, crossing dotted lines over Sherlock's chest and inner thighs, taking care to avoid spilling hot wax over his erection.

The room was silent save for the noises falling freely from Sherlock's mouth. "Please, John," he murmured, his head thrashing back and forth as his body bucked, searching for touch. "I'm so close."

John shook his head. "Not yet, pet. Not until you've earned it," he said, dragging his hand down Sherlock's wax-splattered chest, pausing at the top of his pants, silently asking for permission.

Sherlock moaned and nodded, sighing gratefully when John palmed his erection. "God, John, your _hands_," he breathed.

"Like that, do you?" John asked. He leaned in and pressed a kiss behind Sherlock's ear. "Deduce them, pet. Ever one of the petite women. Find the killer and you can cum," he whispered, voice barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and the targeted the first petite woman, a blonde, in the back. She's the right height, he could tell even with her sitting on her partner's lap, but her hair was the wrong color, her sheer underwear proved that the carpet matched the drapes, so not the killer…

The second woman, a redhead, was standing just off to the side of the front row. Her hair was obviously dyed, (nobody naturally had that specific shade of cherry red, and her roots were growing in a mousy brown). A tall, blonde man stood beside her, hand wrapped firmly around the lead attached to the gaudy black collar wrapped around her throat. The collar and lead were well worn, easily five years old or more. So she's not the killer then, wouldn't dream of leaving her partner, and definitely wasn't strong enough to manage any sort of dismemberment…

Motion brought Sherlock's eyes back to Charlie and Clarissa. He watched as Charlie's hands work over her chest, pausing to release the globes of flesh from their leather confinement. His eyes are fixed at the dark mark that contrasts so strikingly against the pale skin of her left breast. He shuddered when he realised that he'd seen that mark before.

"John," he moaned, eyes flicking from Clarissa to search for John's gaze.

"Did you figure it out yet?" John whispered, leaning in to nip at Sherlock's neck, his palm rubbing agonizingly slowly across Sherlock's still covered cock.

"Yes," he hissed, grinding up into John's hand as best as he could.

"Then cum for me, pet. You've earned it," he growled, stroking his hand firmly against Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's orgasm hit him like a freight train, the teasing and build up all releasing at once. His vision went grey and fuzzy, and he slumped back against the table when John took his hands away. He doesn't remember John untying him, or John helping him up. When Sherlock came back to his senses, he was in a small room curled up on a bed beside John, his head pillowed on John's sturdy chest.

"It's Clarissa," he said after a moment.

"Are you sure?" John asked, rubbing a hand up his flatmate's naked back.

"Positive. She had the brand on her," Sherlock replied, nodding into John's skin.

They laid there for a few long moments, John's hand rubbing any residual tension out of Sherlock's shoulders while he dozed. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll go out and talk to Charlie, ok?" he asked, twisting to press a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

"Please," Sherlock replied, sitting up gingerly in the bed. He followed John into the bathroom and waited as he fussed with the shower taps. When John stepped away, Sherlock peeled off his pants and stepped under the warm spray, sighing contently as it trickled down his oversensitive body. John's hands were warm and steady as they passed over his chest, carefully flicking dried wax off.

"We need to warn Charlie," Sherlock said after his torso was clean. "If her previous patterns are anything to go by, her next murder would be this weekend."

John nodded and stepped back from the shower, wiping his hands on a clean bath towel. "And how do we do that? I don't even know where they are, anymore," John asked. "Besides, I want you to be sure it's her before we say anything. The last thing I need is for Charlie to be on my ass because he's convinced I want his girl."

"Well, her hair is dyed brown, her eyebrows are too light for that color to be natural. She's petite and fits the build we've profiled so far. While she's fairly strong, she's not strong enough to cut cleanly through muscle, bone, and sinew. And lastly, she was branded with the same mark all the victims were, clearly providing her motive for the murders," Sherlock softly rattled, shutting off the water.

"Okay," John said, his fingers ghosting over Sherlock's chest to check for any injuries. He stepped away once he was satisfied no lasting marks were hiding. Gently, John guided Sherlock back into the small bedroom. He pulled out the detective's trousers from the fetish bag and helped him into them, shimmying the dark slacks up pale thighs before buttoning the top and doing up the zip.

Sherlock's black buttondown was next, and John peppered kiss after kiss against Sherlock's chest as he did up the buttons one by one. When the detective was dressed, John placed a lingering kiss over his pulsepoint, hands resting on Sherlock's hips. "Come on," he murmured, lips ghosting across Sherlock's skin, "let's go have a drink."


	10. Recruiting the Shepherd

**Here's chapter ten! I surprised myself and got this installment finished sooner than anticipated. It was a swell break from my end of term papers, so maybe that's why it got whipped out so quickly... As always, let me know what you thought in a comment or review. Cheers.**

* * *

John and Sherlock made their way back towards _Leather's_ bar, sliding into a cozy booth just off to the side. They ordered drinks, and Sherlock was nursing his double shot of whiskey when Charlie slid into the booth by John, dragging Clarissa in behind him. "Well done, mate. Surprised us all again," Charlie commented, his arm wrapping around Clarissa's shoulder, hand dangling possessively in front of her chest.

Sherlock fought to suppress a smirk when he saw her press her lips together, her

eyebrows tensing toward each other for a moment before her face was a blank mask once more.

"Seriously," Charlie continued, "your submissive is incredibly responsive. It's beautiful to see you play him. How long have you guys been together?"

John turned and looked at Sherlock, asking for his input. "We've been living together for two years," John supplied, pausing to take a long swig of his pint, "but only started playing together recently." A small nod from Sherlock validated his answer, a small smile pulling at the corners of John's face.

Charlie sucked a breath in through his teeth. "You lived with him for over a year before getting on that? Damn, Captain, that's some mighty fine restraint you have," he said. "I barely lasted two hours after I met my girl before I had her sucking my cock. I can't imagine waiting that long. Was it worth it?"

The crease in Clarissa's eyes pulled Sherlock's attention from John. He frowned when he saw the very corner of her mouth turn up. He knew that look, he'd seen it on John a few times, but only when he was either furious, or was around someone he absolutely loathed. When he saw that look directed at Charlie, Sherlock had to refrain himself from launching across the table and pinning her to the ground. The thought of John's disappointment at ruining the case was the only thing that kept him in his seat, sipping his whiskey.

"Living with Sherlock in general is worth it, Charlie," John said, raising a hand to rub at the back of the detective's neck as if he sensed Sherlock's inner quarrels. Sherlock leaned closer to John, his hand resting comfortably on John's thigh.

"I bet it is. With a mouth and ass like that, how can it not? I bet he swallows, doesn't he?" Charlie asked, leaning over to study Sherlock lewdly.

John stiffened, his hand pausing it's ministrations on the back of his flatmate's neck. "That's none of your business, Charlie. What happens between Sherlock and I in our home stays there," he said, frowning slightly. "You don't see me prying into your personal life with Clarissa."

Charlie waved a hand dismissively. "She doesn't mind, trust me. She behaves so well for me even though the relationship is so new. Someone trained her well," he commented.

"Please, Sir," she interrupted, tugging gently on Charlie's sleeve. "I don't feel well. Can we go home early?"

Charlie turned to look at her and frowned. "I suppose. You have been so good tonight. We will come back tomorrow though," he replied. With a sigh, he turned back to John and shrugged his shoulders. "Tough luck mate, I was gonna let you play with her."

John smiled a pinched smile and handed his mobile to the other dominant. "It's ok, mate. Put your number in, I have some ideas for a scene I want to run by you later, if that's ok," he said.

Charlie nodded and punched his number in quickly, handing the phone back to John when he was finished. "Can't wait to hear from you, mate. Maybe you can give me a few ideas of things to try with my girl," he said, standing from the booth.

John nodded and waved as he watched the two leave the club, Charlie's hand resting lewdly on Clarissa's ass. He waited a few minutes before texting his friend.

10:23 Do not go inside her home - JW

10:24 Who is this, and what the fuck does that mean?

10:24 John Watson. From _Leather_. I'll explain after you take her home. - JW

10:27 Okay, but you better have a good reason. If you don't, I'll make you pay for

making me miss out on taking her sweet ass.

10:27 When you kiss her goodnight, pull her hair. I need to check something - SH

10:28 SW? Who the hell is this?

10:28 John's submissive. And don't ask questions, just get your fingers in her hair - SH

10:28 Also, if I'm wrong, you can fuck her later. If I'm right, you won't want to. - JW

10:35 Ok, but John, you owe me for this.

10:53 Dropped her off. Now explain.

10:53 Do you have dye on your hands? - JW

10:55 Yes… How did you know?

10:56 Come to New Scotland Yard, 8-10 Broadway, London SW1H 0BG. - JW

10:56 Seriously, John, what the hell is going on?

10:57 Just get your ass to that address. We need to talk face to face. - JW

10:57 Don't wash your hands! We need that evidence! - SH

Twenty minutes later, Charlie stumbled out of a cab, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he tripped over the kerb. "John Watson, you have some serious explaining to do!" he shouted, looking around frantically for them.

John walked out from the main entrance and waved at him. Sherlock towered behind him, his thick Belstaff coat a stark contrast from the minimal clothing Charlie had seen him in earlier. The two flanked Charlie and entered the building, both silent as they made their way to Lestrade's office. As soon as the door was shut and locked behind them, Charlie exploded.

"What the hell, John? You've gone and spooked me real good. What the fuck is going on? You've kept me in the dark long enough, mate!" he yelled.

John exchanged tired looks with Lestrade, the silent 'how do you want to handle this?' passing between them. "Sherlock," Greg said, gesturing to the tall detective. "Would you be so kind as to do your thing?"

"Really, Lestrade. It's called _observing_. But seeing as I'm the only one in the room who is capable of that basic task, I will, as you so dully put it, _do my thing_," Sherlock huffed, pulling the coat from his shoulders, laying it dramatically across the back of a chair.

"Sherlock, be nice. We're all tired, and I'm not in a forgiving mood," John murmured, running a hand through his hair. He caught his eye and was relieved when the detective nodded minutely, silently acknowledging his instruction.

"Clarissa is a murderer, and you're her next subject," Sherlock said evenly, steepling his hands under his chin.

Charlie looked from Sherlock, to John, to Greg a few times before tipping his head back and laughing. "Very funny, guys," he said between peals of laughter. "You got me."

John sighed and gestured to one of the three empty chairs in Greg's office. "I think you better sit down, mate," he said.

Charlie quieted and sunk down in the chair. "Does that mean you aren't joking?" he asked.

John sat down beside him, gesturing for Sherlock to take the third seat. "Dear god, I wish I was joking, Charlie," he replied. "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock and I are helping him with a case," he said, gesturing to man sitting behind the desk.

"And you think it's Clarissa?" he asked.

Lestrade exchanged looks with John, as if asking him to handle it.

"It's definitely Clarissa," Sherlock said, perching on the back of the third seat. "We should get a warrant and arrest her tonight, Lestrade. This is wasting our time."

"Seriously. _My_ Clarissa. The girl who couldn't hurt a fly if her life depended on it? I don't believe you," Charlie huffed, crossing his arms.

"Look, mate, we have evidence to believe that Claris-"

"Bullshit, Captain. I doubt you have anything pointing at her," Charlie interrupted.

John fixed him with a glare and gestured once more to Sherlock. "Go on then," he said. "I know how hard it's been for you to hold back. Deduce it for him, pet."

Sherlock felt his cheeks color at the public use of the nickname. "You have dye on your hands, don't you?" he asked, reaching across John to grab at Charlie's wrists.

"Yes, but what does that have to do with it?" Charlie asked, showing the detective the smears of brown dye staining his fingertips.

"The victim is twenty-five and has a petite build. She's dyed her hair recently, and has been targeting men that look a lot like John," Sherlock started.

Charlie huffed and ripped his wrists back. "I don't look a thing like John," he stated.

"Yes, and let's thank god for that small mercy," Sherlock murmured. "She also has the same brand mark that all of the victims had. If we ran a DNA test on her hair, it would match the one we found at the last crime scene," Sherlock continued, laying out pictures of the previous victims. "By her pattern, her next murder would be scheduled for this weekend, likely tonight. We need your help in catching her."

Charlie went still for a moment, processing all the information, and eventually nodded. "Okay, how do I help?" he asked, looking up at Greg.

"Well," Lestrade said, rubbing his temples, "it would help us to catch her in the act. Not the actual murder, mind you, but the beginning of it. She likes to tie her victims up first, tease em a bit before she tortures them. I don't have a plan yet, but I'm sure we can come up with something with John and Sherlock."

"And you trust these men? I mean, I know John, and he's a good guy, but I'm not sure I would trust him with my life against a murderer," Charlie asked.

Lestrade chuckled. "I trust them both with my life. Can't go wrong with an ex-army doctor and his consulting detective. This wouldn't be their first time confronting a murderer, and I doubt it will be their last," he said.

"Ex-army doctor?" Charlie mumbled, turning to blink owlishly at John.

The blonde chuckled and hit Charlie's shoulder lightly. "I had to earn the 'Captain' somewhere, mate," he said.

Charlie gaped at John for a moment. "I thought it was just a fake title. You know, for the club. To attract potential partners," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.

John smiled at him and winked.

"John definitely earned his title," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on a scratch in Lestrade's desk. "Even has the scar to prove it."

The room was silent for a moment, as Charlie looked back and forth once again from John, to Sherlock, to Lestrade. "So, an ex-army doctor and his pet consulting detective investigate a BDSM club and find a murderer. How the hell does that happen?" he asked.

Lestrade laughed, pulling an amused look from John. "Ex-army doctor and his pet consulting detective," he mumbled. "That's priceless. Just wait until Anderson hears…"

Sherlock frowned and stood up from his chair. "That will be enough for tonight, Lestrade. I will organize a plan and will text you the details. Both you and Charlie should report to Baker Street tomorrow night promptly at seven pm," he barked, pulling on his coat.

"What for?" Charlie asked, looking incredulously at the detective.

Sherlock grinned. "We're going to catch a murderer. Now, come along, John," he said, opening the door and exiting, his great coat swirling around his legs.

With a sigh, John hauled himself up from his chair and shook Greg's hand. "Nice cuffs Sherlock was wearing," Lestrade commented, smiling crookedly at the doctor.

John smiled wearily and shook his head before leaving the room without speaking a word. John jogged down the hall, catching up to Sherlock just before the doors to the elevator closed. "Please tell me you have a plan worked out, Sherlock," he said.

"Of course, John. I'll text it to Lestrade on the way back. Then we are going to bed," Sherlock replied, fingers flying over the keys of his blackberry. He was silent the entirety of the cab ride, typing furiously before sending off his message with a flourish of his hand. John's phone pinged a moment later, notifying him of the new messages, and he silenced it with a sigh. He had all day tomorrow to worry about whatever plan Sherlock had cooked up.

Baker Street was quiet when the cab pulled up. Sherlock covered the tab and followed John up the stairs into their flat. They gravitated towards each other, John easing Sherlock's coat off his shoulders before heading into the kitchen to be crowded by Sherlock as he made a sandwich. He cut it diagonally and gave one half to Sherlock, the look on his face a silent order to eat it. Surprisingly, he did so without complaining, even taking care to rinse off the shared plate when he finished. They took turns in the shower, first Sherlock, then John, both hurrying through their evening routines.

It was half past two by the time Sherlock appeared at John's door, hair still damp from his shower, dressed in his pajamas. He quietly climbed into bed with John, carefully curling against him like he had the last time they shared a bed. He smiled when John's arm wrapped around his shoulders, his hand ghosting down his arm to stroke at the skin of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock blushed and gripped John's shirt when he heard the doctor's quiet gasp upon discovering that he was still wearing his leather cuffs.

"Sh'lock? We can take 'em off now," John mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to wear them tonight. Please, John?" he asked.

John pressed a kiss to the detective's curls and squeezed him gently. "Of course, pet. You only need to ask. Now sleep, tomorrow will be a long day," he replied, shifting to lay on his back.

Sherlock adjusted to the new position, resting his head on John's chest, being careful to avoid his shoulder. He spent a few minutes rubbing small circles into the soft skin just above John's stomach, humming contentedly when the muscles relaxed under his touch. John was asleep within minutes, snoring lightly into Sherlock's curls. The detective pressed a kiss against whatever part of John's chest he could reach before following the doctor into dreamland.


	11. Gearing Up

**Gack. So sorry again for the wait. Finals are over and I'm on summer break. For the next ten days. Bugger.**

**I'm aware this part is kinda short and probably very slow. My intentions for this chapter was to cover a lot of ground, but like always, I underestimated the characters, and it's grown beyond my wildest dreams. It may take a day or two for the next installment, but it should be posted on Sunday at the latest. As always, let me know what you thought through a comment or a review. Cheers.**

* * *

When seven o' clock rolled around the next evening, Greg and Charlie were ushered into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and promptly pushed down on the couch. A metal briefcase was sitting open on the kitchen table, microphones and various computer equipment glinting ever so slightly under the soft light. John was busy puttering about the kettle, pulling down four mugs and his container of tea bags. "Anyone else want a cuppa? This might take a while," he offered, turning to look at the two on the couch.

Both Greg and Charlie nodded, and continued looking around the flat. A moment later, Sherlock appeared, still in his lounge wear and dressing gown. He moved his armchair to face the couch and sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together under his chin. He kept quiet, eyes narrowed on the spot directly between Greg and Charlie.

"So, any questions about the plan?" John asked, breaking the silence as he handed a mug of tea to Lestrade.

"I've got a few," Greg replied. "How on earth is this all going to work? I mean, it makes sense in theory, but I have yet to see a plan like this executed without any hiccoughs. I'd rather not put anyone in danger if we can avoid it."

John nodded and settled in his armchair, sipping from his mug. "I believe Sherlock is the best one to answer that."

The detective was silent for a moment. "Everyone will be wearing a wire. Mycroft will aid us in surveillance, so even if Charlie doesn't go back to the murderer's apartment, we'll still be able to see him. He'll also be wearing a subdermal tracker, so we'll be able to pinpoint his exact location accurately within a yard. We have undercover police stationed outside the murderer's apartment, and more will be stationed outside of _Leather_," Sherlock started, pausing to breathe. "For us, we'll act as we always do. Charlie will treat his… partner like a piece of meat, Lestrade will sit at the bar and watch everything that happens, and John and I will attempt to blend in while getting closer to the murderer. When Charlie leaves with the murderer, we'll wait precisely seven minutes before following them in unmarked police cars. We'll enter the home, subdue the murderer after catching her in the beginnings of the act, and cut Charlie free from his bondage. John and I will go home, Lestrade will take Charlie back to Scotland Yard for questioning, and the remaining police will search the murder's home. Any additional questions?"

"So it's all going to be safe?" Greg asked.

"Subdermal tracker?" Charlie asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, Lestrade. All safe. And of course the tracker will be subdermal. The murderer likes to have her victims naked, and we couldn't take the chance of using any other kind," he replied.

"How the hell do I get it in?" Charlie asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, please take care of it," he said, turning to drape his impossibly long legs over the side of his chair.

John huffed and walked over to the open briefcase, pulling out what looked like a small gun and his first aid kit. "I'm sorry about this, mate," he said, motioning for Charlie to come join him. "It won't be pleasant, but after a few minutes, you won't even feel it anymore."

Charlie rose and approached John. "Is this like a flu jab?" he asked rolling up the sleeves to his shirt.

John smiled apologetically and patted his friend's shoulder awkwardly. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to drop your trousers and bend over the table," he said, avoiding the question.

"I suggest you do as the good doctor says. I know for a fact that he's stronger than he looks and not above pinning you down," Sherlock commented.

Charlie stared at John for a moment, his mouth hanging open. John raised an eyebrow at him, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "It's the only place she won't see it," he said, ripping open an alcohol swab.

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie was sitting gingerly in a kitchen chair beside Lestrade, matching plates of chinese takeout in front of them both. John leaned against the counter, eating his own portion out of the box while he watched Sherlock, still sitting sideways in his chair.

"Sherlock," he called between mouthfuls, "come and eat before it gets cold."

"Not hungry," he replied.

"I don't care. You're going to come here and eat with us. And then you are going to shower and get dressed properly," John said.

"Not hungry," Sherlock repeated. He jumped when a box of take out was dropped in his lap, the corresponding chopsticks following a heartbeat later.

"Eat your damn dinner. And then go shower. Not up for debate," John gritted out, his gaze locking intently with Sherlock's. "If you don't, I'll tie you to the bed and leave you there until the case is over. So, please, just do as I say."

Sherlock didn't reply, but smiled gratefully up at John when he realized that the carton was only half filled with his favorite pork dish.

When John returned to his spot against the counter, it was to a very shocked expression from a silent Lestrade.

Charlie laughed and made a lewd gesture that John ignored. Greg just blushed and murmured unheard words into his dinner.

Five minutes later, Sherlock pressed an empty take out container into John's hands before disappearing wordlessly down the hall into the bathroom. John smiled when he heard the pipes rattle as the water turned on.

After dinner was cleaned up, John excused himself to go change his clothes and get wired up, handing the second wire set to Lestrade. Once in his room, he stripped down to his pants and laid out his supplies in the middle of his bed. The microphone wires and earpiece, his gun, and two folded knives.

John opened his wardrobe and sat on the edge of his bed. For the first time since he came back from Afghanistan, he wasn't sure what to wear to _Leather_. His usual fare would do nothing to hide his equipment, but his classic jeans-and-jumper combo would stick out like a sore thumb. With a sigh, he started rifling through his drawers. He jumped when he heard a timid knock at his door. "If it's Sherlock, come in. If it's not, give me a mo'," he said.

The door opened and a dripping wet consulting detective clad only in a towel stepped inside, taking care to close the door quietly behind him. "You're not dressed yet," he commented, his eyes roving over John's form.

"Great deduction, Sherlock," John chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid I don't know what to wear."

Sherlock was quiet for a few heartbeats as he stared at John's wardrobe. "Might I make a suggestion?" he asked.

"Of course," John replied, gesturing to his wardrobe. "Pull whatever you think will be good."

Sherlock crossed the room and began rummaging, the hand not anchored on his towel on a mission. A moment later, his hand re-emerged, a familiar desert camo print clenched between long fingers. "I believe your old army fatigues will be more than suitable. Not only will they hide your weapons, but, from what I've observed at _Leather_, will be accepted as part of a power dynamic."

John took the clothes from Sherlock and kissed his knuckles. "My brilliant detective," he murmured. "Thank you."

Sherlock frowned slightly and let his hands drop. "John?" he breathed.

"Yes?" John asked.

"I had to take them off," Sherlock said, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Take what off?" John asked, tugging on his white vest.

Sherlock shifted his weight, rocking forward on the balls of his feet before relaxing back on his heels. "Your cuffs. For my shower. I'm sorry, John."

John paused getting dressed to cup Sherlock's cheek and raise his gaze. "Hey, it's ok. We can always put them back on," he commented, stroking a thumb over his flatmate's cheek.

Sherlock nodded once and leaned into John's touch. "I'm glad. I don't like not having them on. I feel anchored to you."

John smiled softly and dropped his hand. "I like them on you," he admitted. "Now, I'm going to finish getting dressed. When I'm done, I'm going to come down to your room, put your wire on, and then I'm going to dress you. Go get everything laid out for me, pet," he instructed, picking up the smaller of the two knives.

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock breathed, exiting the room as quickly as he could.

John chuckled to himself as he tucked the small knife in a holding band anchored around his right thigh. He pulled on basic white socks next, followed by his trousers. His transmitter box was stored in his back pocket, and the microphone was clipped to his vest. John picked up his handgun next, checking to make sure the safety was on before tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

It took John a few minutes of rummaging to find his combat boots. After he tugged the boots on, John secured the larger knife in his left boot, lacing it up tight when he was finished. He tugged on his jacket last, his fingers working the familiar buttons quickly. Standing tall, he looked at his reflection in the small mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. He was surprised to see that the uniform still fit him as well as it did in Afghanistan. John took a deep breath and with a minute nod of his head, he turned on his heel and exited his room, boots clunking down the stairs.

He bypassed Charlie and Greg on his way to Sherlock's room, ignoring the wolf whistle from the taller man. He grabbed the last wire set before knocking briskly at Sherlock's door. He allowed the other man a few seconds to gather himself before he let himself into the detective's room.

Sherlock sat on the middle of his bed, his form covered by his blue dressing gown. He seemed lost in thought, eyes fixated on the clothes laid out across the chair by the window.

"Ready for me, pet?" John asked, his voice gentle.

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock said, gracefully climbing off the bed and moving to stand in front of John.

John looked back and forth from the transmitter box in his hand and Sherlock's intended outfit. "How is this going to work with those trousers?" he thought aloud.

"If anyone asks, it's an insulin pump," Sherlock answered.

John nodded and set the wire set down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, picking up the dark wash jeans resting on the chair. Taking his time, John eased each of Sherlock's legs through the holes and pulled the denim up strong thighs. He buttoned and zipped the flies and slid the transmitter box into Sherlock's back pocket. If the detective noticed his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long against his arse, he didn't say anything.

Sherlock's favourite purple shirt was tugged on next, and John secured the microphone on the inside before buttoning it up. As always, the top two buttons were left loose, and Sherlock's neck was left temptingly bare.

"Where are the cuffs, pet?" John asked, righting the collar of Sherlock's shirt.

"In the bathroom, with the dogtags," he replied.

John patted his flatmate's shoulder gently. "I'll be right back and we can put them on," he said.

"No," Sherlock said hurriedly.

"No?" John asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I thought you wanted to wear them."

"I do," Sherlock replied. "But I want you to put them on like you always do… it helps me get in the proper headspace for the club."

John smiled warmly at his flatmate and nodded. "Charlie and Greg are out there, you know," he commented.

"I know. It's ok. They'll see me with you all night, anyways," Sherlock said.

"Then let's go get your shoes on. When you're done, come kneel by my chair, and I'll take care of you," John instructed, heading towards the bathroom. He retrieved the cuffs and dogtags before returning to the sitting room to sink down in his chair.

"Everyone ready to go?" Lestrade asked, tugging on his jacket. Charlie nodded, already halfway out the door.

"Almost," John replied. "There's one last thing I need to do first."

Greg shot him a questioning look, his eyebrows nearly meshing with his hair line when he saw Sherlock sink to his knees in front of John's chair. Silently, he watched as the two flatmates performed their ritual.

"Sherlock, will you wear my cuffs and be my responsibility tonight?" John asked, resting his hands on his thighs.

"Yes, John," the detective replied, placing his hands in John's lap.

"Then from the time I fasten the buckles, to the time I take them off, you're mine, Sherlock," John said. He wrapped the first band of leather around his flatmate's wrist and placed a small kiss over the buckle when it was secure before repeating the action on Sherlock's other wrist. Finally, he placed his dogtags around Sherlock's neck, pausing to wrap a fist around the metal tags. He fought to suppress the urge to pull Sherlock up and crash his lips against the detective's. It took every ounce of self control he had to settle for pulling gently on the tags so he could press a kiss to Sherlock's curls instead.

"Alright," John said, standing from his chair, taking care to step around the still kneeling detective. "We can go now."


	12. In The Act

**Holy moly. Here's chapter twelve. I hope this installment finds you all well. This story is almost finished and only has one chapter left. As always, please let me know what you thought through a comment or a review. Cheers.**

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_Leather_ is more crowded than Greg remembered. He worked his way inside, trailing just behind John and Sherlock. Making his way over to the bar, Greg got his first glimpse of Clarissa, the suspect, as she weaseled her way across the room to hang indecently off of Charlie. Lestrade barely managed to stifle a shudder as Charlie's hands raked over her form, feeling her up in plain sight. It's indecent, he mused, sinking into an empty seat at the end of the bar. Absolutely indecent.

Greg ordered a pint, turning so that he faced the open layout of the club, all the exits clear in his sight. He did his best to not appear startled when John rested a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him to order a couple of drinks from the bartender.

"Didn't mean to scare you, Greg," John murmured, throwing a few bills down on the counter in exchange for two glasses filled with an electric blue liquid.

"You didn't," he countered, a weak smile turning his lips up at the corners. "There's just a lot of people; more than what I'm used to."

"Mmm. Yeah, I haven't seen the club this packed in a long time," John commented, sipping from his drink. John pressed the other glass into Sherlock's hands, the command to drink passing unsaid between the two men.

Greg was silent, his eyes tracking Charlie's movements as he dragged Clarissa onto the dancefloor, his hands settling possessively over her ass. Two additional pairs of eyes joined him in looking, and both he and John grimaced as Charlie started feeling up his partner, hands and mouth exploring everywhere.

"He has no tact, does he?" Greg asked, turning to check the exits again.

John shook his head. "There's a time and a place for possessive behavior, and this is not one of them," he commented, taking another sip of his drink. The three men hovered at the end of the bar for a few minutes, eyes raking over every square inch of the place they could see as they downed their drinks. Sherlock pressed closer to John the longer they stood there, and by the time his glass was empty, John had draped an arm casually around Sherlock's shoulders. Never before had he seen the detective act like this, and it both confused and elated Greg.

"We're gonna go dance for a while, see if we can get closer to Charlie," John said, setting two empty glasses on the bar. "If you need anything, just speak up. We can hear you just fine." Half a minute later, John had somehow made his way to the center of the dancefloor, Sherlock trailing close behind him.

John and Sherlock were careful for the first few songs, John's hands bracketing Sherlock's hips as they moved slowly. After the third song, they're pressed much closer together, Sherlock's arms slung around John's neck, his cuffs prominent even in the low lighting. They're quiet, ears strained to hear whatever they can pick up from Charlie as he grinds Clarissa against him.

"I was disappointed you didn't come in last night," she said between kisses, her breath coming in hot puffs against Charlie's neck.

"I'm sorry. John wanted to meet up, said he had a few ideas for me, for us," Charlie replied, bending to suck a mark into her neck.

Clarissa's head tipped back and she moaned obscenely. It sounded forced to Sherlock, and he told John as much, murmuring his thoughts into the doctor's ear.

John shivered and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips, squeezing the skin just enough to cause the detective's breath to hitch. John smirked and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck, his lips ghosting over Sherlock's throbbing pulsepoint. He kept listening, both to Sherlock's words in his ear and to Charlie's conversation with Clarissa.

"It better be a fucking spectacular idea," she growled, hand fisting in Charlie's short, brown hair.

Charlie grinned and bent to kiss her. "Oh it will be. It has to be in order to satisfy a slut like you," he growled. He crashed his lips to hers a moment later, hands kneading the twin globes of her ass.

Sherlock saw her freeze for a split second out of the corner of his eye. She didn't like being treated like that, but Charlie and 80% of the other men here were too idiotic to pick up on that. She deserved to be treated well, he mused, by a man who saw her needs and catered to them instead of thinking he knew better because of a self-imposed title. She needed a man like John, he thought, needed a man who had earned his title. But not his John, he amended. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he saw his cuffs, so dark against his pale skin. It was a proof, that even for a little while, Captain Watson was his.

As more bodies swarmed the dancefloor, John pulled Sherlock closer still, dancing chest to chest, hip to hip with his flatmate. He could feel every breath Sherlock took, every shiver that skittered down his spine, every minute detail of his body, and John thought it was delicious. People were bumping into them left and right, but John didn't care. He kept swaying to the music and slid his hands to the small of Sherlock's back.

Being so close to his flatmate, John knew the exact moment that Sherlock started receiving unwanted attention. John knew, that anyone else watching would be clueless to the brunet's discomfort, but he felt it. It was in the way Sherlock's hips stuttered for a brief moment, clear in the way his breath hitched, obvious in the way his barely audible sentences tapered off unfinished. John's eyes darted around, fixing on the taller man behind Sherlock. John glared when the other man's hands slid around Sherlock's waist, his eyebrow raising in a clear challenge to John.

"Hey, fuckwit, he's taken," John growled, tightening his grip on Sherlock.

The other man chuckled. "Oh really? Doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother him," he commented.

Sherlock shivered against him, the brunette's head dropping to his neck. "John, please," Sherlock whimpered, attempting to step forward into the doctor's familiar embrace.

"You're making my submissive uncomfortable," John said, voice steely. "Now, please, remove your hands from his body before I remove them for you."

The other man smirked and stepped closer, pressing his body against Sherlock's back. "I'd like to see you try, hobbit."

"You can punch him, John. I'll just slip off to the bathroom so I don't see anything," Greg said, his voice tinny and slightly muffled through the earpiece.

"Please do," Sherlock whispered into his neck, his breath ghosting across John's sweaty skin.

The other man wasn't prepared for John's fist colliding with his jaw, nor was he prepared for the second blow to his gut. He stumbled back and glowered at John, eyes blazing. "You little shit!" he exclaimed, lunging forward towards John.

Sherlock watched as John easily side-stepped the other man, blinking as he ended up ploughing over a trio of women who had been dancing together. He blinked again in surprise when John's hand fisted in his hair and pulled back, a soft moan falling from his lips.

"Do not touch what is mine," John growled, glaring at the other man. "You can try and take any other sub you want, taken or not, but you will not take mine."

Sherlock gasped as John's lips found his pulse point again, the sound turning into a strangled moan when John fastened his lips to his neck and sucked. John's hands were everywhere, roaming up and down his back, across the upper swell of his ass, pulling him impossibly close. Teeth nipped at his neck, and Sherlock couldn't stop the noises that tumbled from his throat. Everything John did was intensely good, and he couldn't help but want more.

When John pulled away from his flatmate's neck, he was satisfied with the still-shining bruise gleaming at him. It almost matched the shirt Sherlock was wearing, and John knew that if he sucked on the spot just a little bit more, it would darken further and last much longer. "Mine," he whispered, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against the bruise. "You are mine, Sherlock."

"Yours," Sherlock breathed, his eyes boring into John's. He knew then, that everything had changed between them. He no longer wanted to be distanced from the man pressed against him. He found, instead, that he wanted more with John. He wanted for them to share the same air, to be able to wrap his legs around John's waist as he was pinned against any surface in a feat of impossible strength, he wanted John to kiss and nibble and bite at his lips, and he wanted to be so close to John that they couldn't tell where one body ended and the other began.

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when John pulled away from him. Charlie was there, stammering through some excuse about leaving early with Clarissa. He watched as John smiled and patted his shoulder, assuring his friend that all the trouble was almost over, and that he'd be along shortly to save the day. Charlie smiled nervously and left without another word.

They lingered on the dancefloor for a few moments, waiting until the song was finished before backtracking to regroup with Greg at the bar. John ordered a pair of bottled waters and pressed one into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock drank his without being prompted, earning a smile from John.

Once again, Greg was gaping at them. Sherlock endured it for a moment before snapping. "What?" he asked. "Do I have something on my face or something?"

Greg shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "No, but you do have something on your neck. Blimey, John, this is not my division," he replied, his cheeks burning.

John blushed, too, and raised a hand to trace the bruise he left. He was silent, but his touch said it all. I'm sorry' was found in the gentle swipe of a thumb over residual wetness. This will last a while found in the way John's thumb lingered over the bruise. You're mine as John pressed ever so slightly, eyes burning in a way Sherlock had never seen before.

They waited for another song to finish playing before Greg settled up his tab and they all left. They piled into a sleek black car, courtesy of Mycroft, locked into Charlie's tracker, and set off to catch a murderer in the act before her victim count increased by one.

It's a good twenty minutes before they pull up to a shabby building. There's a few lights shining through the upper windows, and John could barely make out Clarissa's profile against the curtains. The rest of the cops arrive shortly after, and John is anxious to move. "She's up there," he said, pointing to the lit windows. "I'm going to go in first and secure the ground floor with Lestrade and Donnovan. Once we're secured, you'll come in and hold the first floor, start your searching, and we'll advance to the second floor. Remember to make as little noise as you can, if she catches us, another man could die tonight."

Sherlock caught various police members rolling their eyes and chuckling under their breath. Very few seemed to take John seriously, but twin glares from himself and the Detective Inspector had them all sobering up, pulling guns out of holsters, preparing to invade the apartment building.

"Go on and pick the lock for us, pet," John murmured in his ear before pressing a familiar kit into his hands.

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told. The lock wasn't difficult, and the door hung wide open a scant thirty seconds later, providing John all the room he could want for a first look inside the building.

It was dark, but empty. The furnishings were minimal and broken. The pristine collection of items lined up on the dingy coffee table stood out against the starkness of the room. Silently, John made a motion with his left hand, directing two men to investigate the items.

"These belonged to the victims," the first one whispered, picking up a well-cared for leather belt in gloved hands.

"This should be evidence enough to arrest her," the second one murmured, pointing his gun towards the stairs.

"We have to get her in the act," Greg hissed. "In the act!"

John turned on his heel and glared at the Detective Inspector, one finger pressed against in his lips, demanding silence. Greg's mouth snapped shut, and John moved up the stairs, steps falling silently despite the heavy boots tied around his feet. His shoulders tensed as he paused at the top of the stairs, ears straining to pick up any sounds indicating Clarissa's whereabouts.

John heard Charlie's whimpering from the second door on his right, muffled sounds and pleas for help ever so faint. He motioned for Greg and Donovan to follow him as he crept towards the door.

Sherlock watched as John took two breaths to steady himself, his eyes fluttering shut. It was remarkable, Sherlock thought, to see John transform completely. Little by little, the doctor half of him slipped away, the Captain coming out in it's wake. John's eyes snapped open, and a heartbeat of silence passed before he exploded, boot crashing heavily against the door, forcing it open.

He swarmed in behind John, Lestrade and Donovan close on his heels. Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in the scene; Charlie was stripped naked and tied spread eagle on the floor. An assortment of torture devices, the still-cold branding iron, and a leather handbag with a long strap were laid out beside Charlie's naked form. Clarissa was fingering a particularly brutal looking knife as she stood over her victim's form.

John's gun leveled with Clarissa's torso, aimed not to kill, but to seriously injure. "Put your hands up and step away from Charlie," he barked, drawing her attention. "Now!"

Clarissa's gaze snapped to the side, zeroing in on John first, then snapping to Sherlock. "Fancy meeting you here, Captain Watson," she purred. Her smile went from pleased to predatorial as she abandoned the knife to wrap her hands around the branding iron. She winked at John before lunging at Sherlock, swinging the weapon towards his face.

Sherlock's arms instinctively raised, wrists crossing in front of his face to protect his head from the blow. John lunged at her as fast as he could, but it wasn't enough to prevent the branding iron from connecting with his left forearm, the iron ripping through his silk shirt and his skin as she dragged it up. John tossed his gun to the side and pinned her to the ground before she could take another swing.

"Hand me the rope from the corner," John barked, fastening a pair of Lestrade's handcuffs around Clarissa's wrists. He pressed a knee into the middle of her spine to hold her in place, but John knew that if she kept struggling, it wouldn't be enough.

Lestrade and Donovan gaped at John, their jaws impossibly wide, and Sherlock knew he didn't look much better. He's just as surprised as they are by John's actions, and it rendered him immobile for a few long heartbeats.

"Now! She'll get free from handcuffs alone!" John shouted, twisting Clarissa's arm a bit more than necessary, a pitiful whimper falling from her throat. Greg handed him a length of rough, jute rope a moment later, and John began knotting her pale wrists together a moment later, tying all the way up to her elbows in an attempt to limit her mobility.

It's quiet for a few agonizing moments, the only sound coming from the scratch of the rope as John worked. "Didn't know you had it in you, John," Donovan breathed, her tongue swiping across dry lips. "First you tame the freak, and then you turn into a BDSM soldier for us."

John's eyes snapped to her form. "Shut up, Donovan," he growled, pulling tight on a particularly vicious knot. "If I ever hear you call Sherlock a freak again, I'll tie you up and leave you somewhere even the Yard's best won't be able to find you."

Sherlock watched in awe as crimson burned across Donovan's cheeks. Her jaw dropped and her breathing rate increased, her pupils dilated, and her tongue wet her hips again. Sherlock was disgusted when he realised she was attracted to John. He did his best to ignore the fact that he was jealous.

"Are you trying to shut me up, or are you just looking for an excuse to play?" she asked, voice unusually flirty. It made Sherlock's stomach clench uncomfortably, and he couldn't help the quiet growl that vibrated in his throat.

John turned to look at Donovan and Lestrade, face contorted with disgust, and shook his head. "Not on the market, Donovan. You're just wasting your time."

The room fell quiet again as John stood up, hauling Clarissa roughly with him. "Please take care of Charlie, and see to it that any injuries are healed. This should hold her until you get her to Scotland Yard. Sherlock and I will be by sometime tomorrow to give our statements, Lestrade," John said, shoving the bound serial killer at Donovan.

With his hands free, John bent to retrieve his handgun. "Come, pet. Let's go home," he ordered, tucking the gun in the waistband of his trousers.

Sherlock nodded and followed John home, crawling into a cab with his injured arm cradled across his chest. He knew he was safe with John, even with the injury; he was still wearing his cuffs, after all. Later, as he sat shirtless on the toilet lid, wincing as John stitching his arm up, Sherlock would analyze his behavior from that night. He would pin his obedience on the fact that he was still acting as John's submissive and would ignore the whispered voices telling him otherwise.

After John had bade him good night and climbed the stairs to his own room, Sherlock climbed alone into his bed. It was only in the safety of the dark where he allowed his mind to wander. He was well aware that the dynamic between them had changed, he wore the proof of a violent, purple bruise on his neck. With a frown, Sherlock realized that he wasn't sure if his relationship with John would ever be able to shift back to how it had been before. The last thought he remembered thinking before he was lost to sleep, was that he wasn't sure if he wanted it to.


	13. Mine

**Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the last chapter of ****_A Study in Leather_****. I can't believe that this whole thing has come together, from start to finish, in one month.**

**I'd like to thank everyone that's been kind enough to leave a review. I look forward to hearing what all you lovely people have to say, and it's pushed me to write even when I either was stuck, or didn't want to invest the time. I do hope that you've enjoyed this story, and that this chapter finds each and every one of my readers well.**

**As always, please let me know what you think through a comment or a review. My PM is always open for those who wish to talk about my work, or for those who want to leave a request. Thanks again for coming along with me on this insane journey. Cheers, to the best of times.**

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Paperwork. There was so much paperwork. Mountains of it. Oceans of it. Planets of it. John wasn't quite sure how he had amassed so much paperwork after being off for just a week, but there it was, stacked in cluttered towers on his desk. With a heavy sigh, John sunk down at his desk, his mug of half-drunk tea going cold by his lamp in the corner. John worked diligently through lunch, ignoring his stomach's gurgling as it tried to get his attention, and continued working until it was an hour past closing time. Sarah had to kick him out when she left, ordering him to go home and eat dinner and have an early night. After the day he'd had, John was keen on obeying.

By the time John made it back to Baker Street, it was half after seven, and Sherlock was experimenting on a half-frozen, decomposing foot. On their kitchen table. With no protective gear whatsoever. John changed his clothes and promptly exited 221B, stalking down to a local pub for a few hours. With the_Leather_ case all wrapped up, Sherlock was starting to get restless. John knew, from experience, that dealing with his flatmate on a regular basis was a challenge, but on an empty stomach, it was damn near impossible. Slipping into a small, very worn booth in a corner, John decided that dinner and a strong drink were definitely necessary. Perhaps two drinks. He rubbed his face after the wait staff took his order. Paperwork fucking sucked.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed by in a similar manner. John showed up to the clinic, drank mug after mug of lukewarm tea, treated colds and allergies, worked on ploughing through his still-growing mountain of paperwork, and went to the pub for dinner and a drink after concluding that Sherlock was too agitated to deal with. Tuesday, John found a few holes in the kitchen table, partially hidden by Sherlock's microscope. Wednesday brought the discovery of severed toes in his favourite jam. If Sarah had noticed the outline of his handgun bulging out the back of his jumper, she graciously didn't say anything. Once again, John was happy to have her as his boss, knowing full well that everyone else would have fired him ages ago.

When John came home Wednesday night, it was to Sherlock battling the microwave with a fire extinguisher. John stood and stared at the fire for precisely 10.27 seconds before he stepped forward, took the fire extinguisher from his flatmate's hands, and put out the flames. One minute and sixteen seconds later, John was stomping up the stairs, an annoyed Sherlock traipsing behind him.

"I had it under control, John!" he said, running his hand through his unruly mop of matted, greasy, curls. "It was an experiment. For science, John!"

John bit his tongue as he moved around his room, packed an overnight bag, and texted Lestrade. When his bag was packed, John pushed past Sherlock to limp down the stairs. "I'm going to spend the night with Greg," he said, pulling his shoes and jacket on. "when I come back tomorrow after work, I expect a new microwave. And the fridge needs to be cleaned out to what we specified during the last case. While I'm gone, I want you to think long and hard about your behavior. Ever since the case wrapped up, you've been out of control, and it needs to stop."

"But John-"

"No buts, Sherlock. Actions have consequences. And I don't have the energy to deal with you tonight," John said, running his hand through his hair.

No more words were exchanged, and Sherlock stood silent in the doorway, watching as John left. He did his best to ignore the twinge in his chest as the door slammed shut behind his flatmate. He chalked the odd feeling up to his transport malfunctioning and returned to his experiments.

Upon his arrival to the clinic the next day, Sarah gave him a once over, squeezed his shoulder gently, and sent him home. He spent the day avoiding Baker Street, choosing instead to wander around London and run some errands for Greg as a thank you. After his shift was scheduled to end, John headed back home, steeling his shoulders as he opened the door to the foyer. Mrs. Hudson was out, spending a long weekend with her sister. Good. John could yell if he needed to. Swinging open the door to 221B, John took in the state of the flat, and froze motionless in the doorway.

Of all the things John had imagined would greet him upon returning home, this particular scenario hadn't even crossed his mind. The microwave had been replaced along with the kitchen table, and no experiments were in his immediate line of sight. Taking a deep breath, John turned to look through the sitting room, his gaze falling on his flatmate.

Sherlock was kneeling by his chair, knees on a cushion looking as if he did this every day. He was naked, save for his pants, the black cotton striking against his alabaster skin. Sherlock shifted, flashing two bands of black around his wrists. John swallowed thickly when he realized Sherlock was also wearing his cuffs.

John made quick work of his shoes and coat and crossed the room to sit in his chair, bag abandoned by the door. His hands wrapped around the gently steaming mug of tea resting on the side table; he must have missed it on his first sweep of the room. He took a sip and smiled softly. Sherlock had made his tea exactly the way he liked it; strong, with a splash of milk. He almost dropped the tea when he realized that in order for his tea to be made perfectly, Sherlock would have had to _go out and pick up milk_. John figured that it was as close to an apology as Sherlock would ever get.

They sat in silence for a while, John's hand eventually finding its way to tangle in Sherlock's curls. The detective leaned into his touch and John smiled, his annoyance quickly melting away. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock went rigid at John's words, back ramrod straight. "Keep me?" he offered, his voice unsure.

John tipped Sherlock's chin up, looking down to lock their gazes. "Of course, you daft bugger. I think we need to reassess what we want now that the case is over," he said. "You need to tell me what you need."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You, John," he breathed. "I need you. You've become… irreplaceable."

John nodded and pulled up on Sherlock's chin, bringing his face level with his own. "And how do you want me, Sherlock? As a flatmate? A friend? Or do you want me as your dominant? Your lover? I can't read your mind, pet," he said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, tongue swiping across his plush lips. "_Yes_."

"Yes to what?" John asked.

"To everything, John. I have no idea what I'm doing, or even how to go about all this, but I want you in every way I can have you," Sherlock said, reaching across John to wrap his hand around something small. "I want to wear your tags, John. I want to feel them pressed against my chest when I wake up. I want to see them when I get dressed in the morning. I want Lestrade and Donovan to make snide comments because they can see them straining against my shirts. But most of all, I want you to put them around my neck and never take them off, and know that I am yours. _Please_, John."

John took his dogtags from Sherlock's hands, wrapping the metal chain around his palm. "If I put these on you, Sherlock, you become my responsibility. Whether we're on a case, or here in the apartment. Is that what you want?" he asked.

Sherlock looked puzzled. "I want what we had. Where I can work like I always do, but if I step too far out of line, for you to correct it," he said. "We can differentiate it from the full D/s dynamic by the addition of the cuffs, if that's acceptable to you."

John considered Sherlock's words for a moment and nodded, unwrapping the chain. "Sherlock Holmes, will you wear these dogtags as a symbol of our relationship?" he asked.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, eyes snapping down to focus on the tags as they twisted just beneath John's hands.

"You are my responsibility now," John murmured, slipping the chain around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock shivered when the cool metal rested against his warm skin, eyes fluttering shut at how grounded he felt. "John?" he asked after a moment, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

"Yes, pet?" John replied, hand still wrapped around the actual tags.

"Will you kiss me?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before yanking hard on the tags, dragging him closer. "Oh god, _yes_," he breathed, eyes darting down to glance at his flatmate's plush mouth. John leaned in and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's, kissing him in the gentlest way he could.

A moment later, Sherlock melted against John's chest, hands gripping at the doctor's strong thighs as their lips moved together. It was sweet, and chaste, and everything a first kiss should be. It was so lovely, but Sherlock wanted more.

John broke the kiss, pulling a groan of protest from Sherlock's throat. He chuckled and pressed a lingering kiss to the detective's forehead, hand stroking at his temples. "God, Sherlock," he murmured, dropping the tags. "What am I going to do with you now?"

"Kiss me again?" Sherlock offered, smiling cheekily up at his partner.

John chuckled, but did just that, hand cupping the back of Sherlock's neck as he pressed their lips together again. It wasn't a perfect kiss by any means, their noses bumped too often as they learned each other, but it was pleasurable all the same.

Sherlock's lips parted when John licked at the seam, and then they were really tasting each other, tongues stroking over teeth, across hard palates, tangling with one another. John tasted like old toothpaste, and chips, and milky tea, and _home_. It overwhelmed Sherlock, and he found himself _drowning _in John. When John broke the kiss and rested his forehead against the detective's, Sherlock found that he didn't mind drowning at all.

"John," Sherlock breathed, eyes opening to stare into John's.

"Sherlock," John murmured, fingertips stroking over sharp cheekbones. "God, how I need you."

"Then take me," Sherlock said, turning his head to press a kiss to John's thumb. "_Please_."

John was up a moment later, pulling a willing Sherlock behind him by his dogtags. How they made it up the stairs to John's bedroom without breaking anything is a miracle, especially with John needing to pin Sherlock to the wall, to the railing, even down against the stairs every now and then to plunder his mouth with his own. Eventually, John's door closed shut behind them, and Sherlock was frantically digging through John's wardrobe for his fetish bag.

"Get on the bed, Sherlock," John ordered, pulling off his jumper.

Sherlock turned and gaped at John. "You'll get the bag, then?" he asked.

John shook his head. "No. Tonight, it's just you and me. No toys or implements."

Sherlock nodded and climbed onto John's bed, watching as his partner quickly worked out of his clothes.

When he was down to his infamous red pants, John climbed into bed beside Sherlock, settling in on his side. He pulled Sherlock to face him and kissed him softly, his hand drifting to tangle in Sherlock's now clean curls. They kissed and took their time, bodies slowly being pulled closer and closer, as if they were magnets.

They were always like magnets though, John mused, thinking back to their first meeting as he kissed down Sherlock's jaw. Memories of their first case played through his mind as he revisited the faded mark on Sherlock's neck, tongue laving over the mottled green-yellow spot. "Mine," he murmured, sucking gently on it, "all mine."

Sherlock moaned under John's touch, hips stuttering to find friction. "Please, John. More," he breathed, hands clutching at his shoulders.

"More what, pet?" John asked, pulling back to lock his gaze with Sherlock's.

"I don't know," he huffed. "Just… more of you."

John smiled and leaned in to kiss him again, pushing his body back against the bed. John straddled Sherlock's hips and ground his hips against Sherlock's, their half hard erections grinding together. "More of this?" he asked, voice roughened with arousal.

"Oh god, _yes_, John. I need you in me," Sherlock murmured, hands dropping to grip at John's hips, pulling him even closer.

"Patience, love," John chuckled, dipping to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I am going to taste every last bit of you before I enter you."

Sherlock shivered at John's words, his hands fisting in the sheets as John swirled a tongue around his left nipple. A broken moan fell from between his lips as John's teeth wrapped around the pebbled flesh and nibbled, the delicious sharpness of pain dancing with the haze that pleasure provided.

John continued down Sherlock's chest, diligently kissing, nibbling, and licking every square inch of skin he could find. He littered love bites on Sherlock's rib cage, and left red, crescent shaped indents against his angular hips. Sherlock's skin tasted of sweat and his soap, and John found that he couldn't get enough of it. His tongue chased the intoxicating taste behind knees, across ankles, and up thighs. John hovered between Sherlock's spread legs, breath puffing hotly over his straining cock. Licking his lips, John looked up and locked his gaze with Sherlock's as his mouth descended, placing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against his clothed erection.

Sherlock's hips bucked when John's tongue lapped at his cock through his pants. His entire body was on fire, thrumming with arousal, John's name falling from his lips like a chant. "Oh god, yes, please," he moaned, legs spreading ever so slightly wider.

"You want me to suck your cock?" John asked, hands gliding up Sherlock's thighs to rest on the elastic of his pants. "All you have to do is ask for it."

"John, please put your mouth on me," Sherlock begged. His knuckles turned white as his fingers twisted tighter in the sheets.

"Lift your hips," John growled, teeth pinching the taught elastic. He pulled down slowly when Sherlock lifted his hips, the black pants sliding down his pale thighs. When Sherlock's pants were discarded somewhere in the room, John returned to his place between Sherlock's spread thighs and wrapped his left hand around Sherlock's throbbing cock, smirking at the broken moan he pulled from his partner.

Never in his life had John ever been in a position where he would admit that another man's cock was beautiful. But here, nestled between Sherlock's legs, eyes flicking back from the man's cock to his face, John would admit it to the world. Everything about Sherlock was beautiful, from the dark curls that were fanned out on John's pillow in a halo, to the tips of his toes. His hands anchored Sherlock's slight hips to the bed and he took a deep breath before his tongue dragged a hot, slick line from the base of his partner's cock to the tip, tongue lingering against the tip.

"John, I'm close," Sherlock said, hands abandoning John's sheets to tangle in the other man's hair. He groaned when John's hand tightened his grip on his cock, squeezing tight enough to make orgasming impossible.

"Oh no you don't," John said, sliding up Sherlock's body, his hand still wrapped tightly around the other man's cock. "You do not get to cum until I'm buried deep inside you, pet; owning you from the inside out, just like you wanted."

Sherlock moaned and pulled John in for a kiss, their lips mashing messily as tongues twined around each other. "Finger me, John, please. I need you inside me," he murmured, breaking the kiss to catch his breath.

Sherlock whined in disappointment as John's body left his, the other man reaching for a half-used bottle of lube and a packet of condoms in the bedside drawer. John returned as soon as his hand had wrapped around the necessary items, his eyes raking over Sherlock's body as he settled between his legs again.

"Hand me the spare pillow, lift your hips, and get comfortable, love," John ordered, popping the top of the lube. He settled the spare pillow under Sherlock's ass and pressed a kiss to the inside of Sherlock's left knee before his strong hands were pushing and prodding at his legs, opening them further to expose every last place on Sherlock's body.

Sherlock tensed under John as a lubed finger traced down his crack, settling lightly over his puckered hole. Gently, John rubbed the pad of his middle finger against Sherlock's opening, gently easing the clenched ring open. "Relax for me, pet," John murmured, pressing a soothing kiss to the detective's thigh.

Sherlock could only moan as John's kisses swept down his leg, his tongue laving down his erection and across his balls. His breath hitched as John's tongue continued down, flicking across his perineum. Sherlock stopped breathing entirely when John's tongue swiped surely across his entrance, path eased by spit and lube.

"John," he called out, hands scrabbling for purchase in the doctor's ruffled hair. "What are you _doing_?"

Sherlock felt John chuckle against his skin as he pressed a closed-mouth kiss over his hole. "I'm tasting you," he murmured, punctuating his words with another hot swipe. "Everywhere. Just like I said I would."

John worked in a frenzy then, tongue lapping at Sherlock's entrance, lips sucking at whatever skin he could find, fingers squeezing around his thighs. Sherlock moaned brokenly when John brought one, lubed finger back to his opening and pushed in gently, tongue flicking beside his digit.

Sherlock was opening up beautifully for him, and John was thoroughly entranced by the other man. His back arched when two fingers pressed inside him, stroking softly across his prostate, pulling heavy gasps of air from Sherlock's lungs. John had to stop his ministrations, removing his hands from Sherlock's body twice before he had three fingers comfortably buried in his tight arse; his partner had simply been too close to orgasm, and John would be damned if he didn't make good on his promise from earlier.

Finally, when Sherlock was begging and panting for him to "hurry up and fuck me already," John put on the condom and pushed slowly and steadily into Sherlock. His lips found the tender skin of Sherlock's collarbone, sucking and biting and kissing as his cock sank inch by inch into what felt like a tight, velvet furnace.

"Are you ok, pet?" John asked, tilting his head to kiss Sherlock on the lips.

"I'm good, John. I'd be even better if you would move," Sherlock replied, rocking his hips back against John's.

Both men moaned at the sensation, and their bodies started to rock against each others. John wrapped Sherlock's legs around his waist and thrust slow and deep into his body, his cock seeking out his partner's prostate.

John knew the moment he found it, as Sherlock clamped down around his cock like a vice as his back arched steeply, bones straining against pale, perfect skin. John bent and sucked another mark into Sherlock's chest as his pace slowly increased. "God, Sherlock. So beautiful," he murmured. "So wonderful. So amazing. And all mine."

"Oh god, yes, John. All yours," Sherlock breathed. His voice was wrecked with pleasure, and he loved the effect it had on John.

Together, their bodies moved and rocked at a torturous pace, despite Sherlock pleading for more. "You will come when I do," John growled, thrusting sharply into his lover. "And I really love your tight, hot arse. I could make love to you for hours."

Sherlock's breath hitched as his eyes sought John's. "Make love?" he asked.

John's smile was dazzling. "Oh yes," he replied. "For hours."

And they did, their bodies engaged in a dizzying stop and go, outlasting the sunset, and finishing long after the street lamps were lit. If Sherlock had thought he was drowning in John before, it was nothing compared to how his lover made him feel _now_.

Now, he was able to share the same air with John. He was able to wrap his legs tighter around John's waist as he moved them from position to position, always making sure Sherlock was comfortable. He smiled as John nibbled and bit as his lips, humming in pleasure when he pressed kisses to the abused, swollen flesh to soothe the gentle sting. John was so close to Sherlock, so deep inside him and his scent surrounding him in the pillows and the sheets and the _air_, that he wasn't quite sure where John's body ended and his began. For Sherlock, it was bliss.

They came together, sometime before the morning paper was delivered. Sherlock clamped down on John's cock, his lover's name spilling from his lips in a chant as hot ropes of cum erupted from his oversensitive cock. He gasped at the picture John made, with evidence of his pleasure painted across tan, sweat-slicked muscles. He moaned as he felt John throb and finish inside him, his partner's deep groan harsh to his ears after the tender litany of _I love you'_s he'd murmured during their lovemaking.

Boneless, they collapsed on the bed together, John pressing Sherlock into the messy sheets as they gasped for breath. In silence, they laid there in the dark, steadying their breath as hands searched for hands and fingers twined together.

"I do too, you know," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

"You do, what?" John asked, pulling back to squint at Sherlock's face.

"Love you," Sherlock replied, smiling softly.

John smiled and leaned up to press a kiss against the detective's lips, humming happily as their lips moved together. "I'm so glad you do," he commented between kisses. "So very, very glad."

"Glad enough to get a flannel?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed and pulled away from Sherlock's body, standing on wobbly legs. "Come on, you prat. Let's go shower. Then we can sleep in your room tonight," he said.

With a groan, Sherlock hauled himself from John's bed, leaning heavily against his lover as they made their way to the shower. "John, if my arse aches tomorrow morning, will you kiss it better?" he asked, smirking.

John hummed in agreement and turned on the tap. "I'll always kiss you better, love," he said, pulling Sherlock under the spray when the water was warm enough. "But for now, shower, teeth cleaning, and bed. I'm knackered."

Sherlock smiled as John began to wash him, allowing his mind to drift. If anyone had told him a year ago that he'd not only be in a relationship with his at the time new flatmate, but that said flatmate would surprise him, Sherlock would have punched the fellow and checked them into a mental hospital. But now, as John rinsed soap suds from his body, Sherlock decided that they were always meant for this, always made for each other. For some reason, Sherlock wasn't sure just yet, John Watson loved him.

When the shower turned off and his teeth were cleaned, Sherlock found himself lingering in the doorway to his bedroom. He watched as John puttered around, pulling out clean pants for the both of them before shimmying into his. "Bed, Sherlock," he ordered, flinging the other pair of pants towards the detective. With a small smile, Sherlock did as he was told, climbing into bed and settling against John like he had the previous nights they'd shared a bed. He found himself drifting off to sleep quicker than usual, and for once, he didn't fight it. After all, he had a lifetime to study John Watson, and he could wait until tomorrow to start.


End file.
